


Vehk for Viarmo

by NorroenDyrd



Series: Oak and Ivy [6]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Afterlife, Ancestor Guardian, Battle Scenes, Daedric Princes, Declarations Of Love, Demon Deals, Domestic Fluff, Draugr, Drunkenness, Dungeon, F/M, Falling In Love, Fight Sex, Fighters Guild, Flashbacks, Illusions, Madness, Memory Loss, Mild Smut, Mother-Son Relationship, Non-Canon Relationship, POV Alternating, POV Multiple, Passion, Possession, Reunions, Shivering Isles, Skyrim Quest: The Wolf Queen Awakened, Temporary Amnesia, Tricksters, Undead, Vampire Lord, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-27 18:26:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 36,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10038374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: The former Champion of Cyrodiil, now a mere ghost trapped inside Sheogorath's mind, watches her granddaughter get entangled in more and more hardship, first almost losing her mind to lycanthropy and then getting turned into a vampire and forgetting all about her past. Desperate, the Champion tries to make a deal with her Daedric host to alter her granddaughter's fate for the better. In the meanwhile, back on Nirn, the said granddaughter's husband, Viarmo of the Bards' College, does not sit still either. Accompanied by the ghost of Modryn Oreyn, the Champion's husband and thus his wife's grandfather, the bard embarks on a dangerous dungeon delve that will eventually lead to a family reunion... Once the risen spirit of Potema the Wolf Queen is defeated, that is.





	1. The Beginning

In her life, she had seen a fair share of prisons, with walls both visible and invisible.  
  
First, there had been her tribe's camp, a handful of tiny tents that they folded up and moved from one place to another whenever the elders sensed the burning wrath of an ash storm about to sweep over them. The boundaries of her world had once been limited to those tents, and to the claw-like rocks piercing the horizon and drawing blood, and to the inky outline of the wise woman's figure as she stood on a grey jutting ledge, divining the ancestors' will in the swirls of the ash clouds. She had been content staying within those boundaries, until the stranger came, seeking her tribe's recognition as the Nerevarine, and told her stories of the wonders that lay beyond the Ashlands, beyond the Inner Sea, beyond the very borders of Morrowind. And when, like a vat with brewing mazte, her mind became filled to the brim with visions of alien lands inhabited by fair, pale-eyed outlanders and strange plants called pines and elms and oaks, and bizarre creatures called wolves and rabbits and horses... then the familiar world turned into a prison, and the confinement behind the walls of tradition and routine grew more and more unbearable with every passing day... Till eventually there came a morning when she got up while the tribe was still asleep and, without a backwards glance, marched off into the unknown, barefoot, with little gear save for a light chitin cuirass and her father's spear, her long braids of copper hair thrown proudly behind her back.  
  
Though her insatiable curiosity and childish naiveté brought upon her head one misadventure after another, she stuck to the path she had chosen, with true Ashlander stubbornness, crossing Vvardenfell, and eventually the mainland too, under the name of Illari, which she had picked for herself instead of her given name - as it now seemed a long, bulky, inconvenient reminder of the life she was leaving behind. When her travels finally brought her over the border to Cyrodiil, she found herself entangled in the web of those odd outlander laws she did not understand - and dragged off to a literal prison, in the heart of the Imperial City. Oh, there she almost came to regret leaving home - plagued by endless nighmares of the tiny cell shrinking till her bones were crushed underneath the cold grey stones... and by the dirty jokes of some Imperial-bred Dunmer locked up across the narrow corridor. From that prison, she was freed by an unexpected turn of fate, which led to her becoming a hero, the savior of the whole Tamriel - nay, the whole Nirn - and finding the love of her life, her ever-frowning, short-tempered, strong and loyal, and utterly delicious Modryn... But that is quite another story.  
  
And finally, there was this. The most terrifying, the most inescapable of all the prisons she had been trapped inside. It had already been two centuries. Two centuries of torment between life and death. Locked within one of the four corners of the House of Troubles. Merged in one with a demented Daedra.  
  
Sweet Mother of Roses, why did she have to investigate that talking door?! She had a settled, comfortable life, she had a loving family and faithful friends - she was a fool to leave it all behind and give in to the call of her blighted wanderlust! Yes, a fool - and a cowardly n'wah... She had disregarded her responsibilities - to the Fighters and Mages Guilds, to the Elder Council, to Modryn and baby Relas... Her son was barely two years old when she left; why, why didn't the heavens burst open and bar her way with a warning lightning blast when she wiped clean his grimy hands - the toddler was always dabbing his chubby little fingers into paint and drawing on the floor, already surpassing his father, as she used to joke - and kissed him on the top of the head and walked out of the door?! She had told everyone - including herself - that she would be gone for two weeks at most... But the moment she was carried off in a whirlwind of butterflies into the heart of that crazy realm, events started rapidly spiralling out of control. And now she was Sheogorath, the Prince of Madness. Granted the boundless power of a Daedra and completely consumed by it. In a matter of a few decades, which is but a fleeting moment for a Lord of Oblivion, Sheogorath had completely taken over the mortal vessel that was used to trap his essence and separate it from Jyggalag - moulding Illari's body into his old form and flooding her mind with his immortal insanity... And now all that remained of her was a tiny, weakened, frightened spirit, lurking in the darkest recesses of the Daedra's mind - a soul denied the afterlife and forced to live as a parasite in a body that was no longer hers.  
  
Most of the time, she was plunged into oblivion - but there were moments of clarity when Sheogorath allowed her to share the forefront of his mind and see the world through his eyes. And from behind the bars of her cage, she cast a longing look at the vivid, flourishing realm of the Shivering Isles, and at the mortal plane that lay beyond. Now and again, the Prince let her take a peek at Nirn and see how those she had abandoned were faring without her; it seemed that her suffering amused him. He laughed when he showed her that her Guild had fallen apart; that her friend, Chancellor Ocato, had been assassinated and the Empire she had done so much to protect was slipping into chaos; that her homeland lay in smoking embers, ravaged by a volcanic eruption, and her kin were fleeing Morrowind to other provinces where they were unwelcome and feared; that her Modryn had been slain by an Orcish fanatic sent by Malacath to reclaim the Helm of Oreyn Bearclaw; that her little boy, whom she had not seen grow up into a man, had spent his entire life looking for a place where he might belong... That after her daughter-in-law, an adventurer from Blacklight that she had not been there to approve (and she might have well disapproved of her - look at that snarky, shifty-eyed brother of hers!), had been claimed by illness, in a draughty little shack in the slums of some cold, dreary Nord city, her precious little Relas had lost his purpose and ended his life as a worthless, self-pitying drunk... And that her granddaughter, named Illari - Illa - after her, had become first a werewolf, then a vampire and no longer remembered anything about her own past...  
  
That last image that Sheogorath showed her - Illa, the grandchild that she had never as much as held in her arms, reduced to a yellow-eyed monster, preying on sleeping mortals in the darkness of the night, gorging herself with hot blood, whirling towards the moons on torn webbed wings... That was the straw that broke the guar's back.  


  
  
Lord Sheogorath froze on his throne, dismissing the faithful Haskill with a casual flick of his hand, and cocked his head curiously to one side - the inside of his Daedric skull was ringing with a shriek of pain and rage.  
  
'It was you, wasn't it?!' Illari wailed, her voice unheard by anyone but her demented host. 'You are meddling with my granddaughter's mind! Ever since she brought us... you... whatever... back from Pelagius' palace, you have been pushing her towards insanity! First that uncontrollable bloodlust in werewolf form, now this! Why are you doing this to her?'  
  
'You know better than to ask me why I am doing something!' Sheogorath exclaimed. 'Why do those Thalmor fellows think they are made of bread? Why does Dervenin hate it when you tickle him less behind the left ear than behind the right one? Why do vampires collect boots? Why did the baliwog cross the road?...'  
  
'Stop mocking me!' even though her lungs had been usurped along with the rest of her body, Illari still somehow found herself capable of screaming them off. 'You have to leave her alone!'  
  
'What, and lose an incredibly amusing plaything? Not gonna happen! Besides,' he crossed his legs and flipped his cane nonchalantly in the air, 'She has repeatedly broken the heart of one of my, how'd you say... prothesises... No, wait, that's not it. Procrastinators? Ah, protégés! You know that apart from the delightful, loveable, squishy little lunatics, I am also the patron of creative people. Artists. Sculptors. Bear-jugglers. Bards. And your girl has been wearing a very bardy bard out by an endless game of cat and mouse! I can't have that - unless I am the cat, and the mouse's name is Ambrosius, son of Cheeseworth'.  
  
'Leave her alone,' Illari repeated, completely disregarding this eloquent oration. 'I will not let you rest until you do!'  
  
'Nag-nag-nag-nag,' Sheogorath sang shrilly, clasping the tip of his nose between his fingers - and then suddenly fell silent; Illari thought she could hear the mismatched cogs of his mind turn in thought.  
  
'Fine!' he said at length. 'Ruling a realm of madness and giant murderous gummy bears will be no fun with a bothersome gnat buzzing in the back of my head. I will stop experimenting on the girl... And you know what,' his eyes narrowed. 'I will make it a double deal! You know, like a sale: buy a bladeless war axe, get a half-eaten bloodgrass sandwich for free! I will let you go too. You have entertained me for two hundred years, I think it's high time I found a new pet... There is that jester assassin down there that looks very promising... Though his mommy will most likely not let him come and play'.  
  
'Wait, wait, wait!' Illari cut him short in agitation. 'You... You are setting me free?'  
  
'Sure!' Sheogorath replied generously. 'One cannot enjoy having a mental appendix forever! Give my regards to Azura; ask her if she is still mad about the whoopee cushion incident... Sanguine and I honestly meant it for Malacath!'  
  
That certainly sounded like a farewell - but Illari felt no change. Minutes trickled by, slow like lava growing cold, and she was still trapped inside Sheogorath.  
  
Finally, the Prince of Madness burst into a fit of roaring laughter.  
  
'What, you didn't seriously believe that I would just shoot you off into afterlife like a cabbage head out of a cannon?' he asked, wiping his tears with his richly embroidered sleeve. 'Your grandkid is way smarter than you; when I told her I would send her home out of Pelly's mind, her first question was: What's the catch? And she was right to ask, because there's always a catch, my sweet grumpy disembodied crumpet! I am not leaving you two alone until little Illa is cured! Can't spring-clean someone's head when there's still Molag Bal's stuff inside it. He might take offence; and I am too old for being chased round the galaxy and hit with a Daedric broom of booming doom!'  
  
'But... The whole point of returning Illa's sanity is cleansing her of vampirism!' Illari protested. 'She won't realize she needs a cure until she remembers what she's lost by accepting that horrid deal!'  
  
'Chickens and eggs,' Sheogorath shrugged. 'Not my problem. I have stated my terms, and I will stick to them like a tongue to a lamp post in winter. First, the cure; then, the awesome Sheogorath magic'.  
  
Illari withdrew into darkness, feeling helpless and defeated. So there was no way out. Entranced as she was by the evil power that ensnared her, Illa would never agree to get cured. Unless someone persuaded her; but who? That bard she was having relationship troubles with? Or maybe her ancestor guardian? Illari was sure she had one; but it had never been revealed to her who it was. Her mother, perhaps, or Relas - or...  


 

  
  
'Modryn,' the spectre introduced himself solemnly. 'Modryn Oreyn. You may address me as Sera'.  
  
Falion eyed the apparition with curiosity. He had been performing his rites at the summoning circle for many a night, but it was the first time he had come into contact with a departed spirit. And what a fine specimen it was, too - glowing a clear, vivid blue against the thick grey predawn mist, all muscles and scars and battered armour. A Dunmeri warrior, from late Third Era, judging by the design of his cuirass... Interesting. Very interesting.  
  
'What is it you seek in the world of the living, Sera?' he asked, slowly and loudly, his tone deliberately polite.  
  
The ghost's lips twisted in a snarl.  
  
'Oh, please! I am dead, not senile!' he said in exasperation. 'I hear you are studying vampirism and ways to cure it; so I have come for a... consultation'.  
  
Falion raised his eyebrows in astonishment.  
  
'You can't be a vampire, can you?'  
  
'It's not for me,' the apparition explained irritably. 'It's for my granddaughter. She is too far gone to wish for a cure, so I am handling the matter for her, as her ancestor guardian.  
  
Falion stroked his chin. This was definitely one of his best summoning sessions yet. Bet Phinis, back at his stupid College, had never come across anything like that. A ghost seeking a way to cure his granddaughter of vampirism! This had to become the subject of a story book.  
  
'Well,' he began, 'You will need a filled black soul gem...'  
  
'Understood,' the ghost said curtly. 'I will search for a way to procure one, and bring the girl to you once I find the gem'.  
  
And with a flash, he disappeared, leaving Falion petrified with his hand outstretched and his mouth half-open. Curse that Dark Elf temperament!  He had not even taken out his apparition questionnaire!  


 

  
  
Viarmo passed the snatch of soft cloth slowly along the surface of the gilded armour. Gods alone knew why he suddenly had to take it out of its chest and give it a cleaning... Perhaps these days, always hounded by painful memories of Illa that so loved catching him unawares, he was afraid of being idle. He forced his hands and mind to be occupied - by what, it mattered little. Tuning a lute. Delivering a lecture. Travelling on College business. And now, armour-cleaning... But no matter how hard he tried to focus on the monotonous movements of the cloth against the glimmering moonstone, he found his thoughts wandering to the day, an eternity ago, when this armour was given to him... and the scar in his heart swelled up with blood again.  
  
  
_He and Giraud are walking down a mountain path, in the wild heart of the Reach - on their way to Old Hroldan inn. There have been rumours of a ghost sighting in the area - one of Tiber Septim's warriors, no less - and, of course, the two bards just had to investigate. At first, Giraud was reluctant to leave the comforts of Solitude for a trek across the wilderness, but Viarmo managed to persuade him. He himself is striding at his weary, grimy-shoed friend's side with perfect ease, as though they have just stepped outside the city gates._  
  
_He is eager to find out more about the ghost, of course - but that is not what is driving him forward, past the jagged rocks and through the patches of prickly undergrowth. For him, this journey is, first and foremost, a chance to cross paths with Illa._  
  
_Giraud suspects as much, Viarmo can sense it - but he says nothing, reserved and impeccably polite as always. He has never approved of his friend and headmaster's stormy marriage - but evidently feels that it is not his place to gainsay him. Not even when they stop for a brief rest on a sheltered stony ledge and Viarmo jokingly points out a peculiar-looking cloud, first saying that it kind of resembles a whale, then - that there is something skeever-ish about it... Giraud agrees with him on both accounts, and is ready to repeat after Viarmo that, scratch whales and skeevers, this cloud is definitely one of those two-humped mounts from Hammerfell - but just as he opens his mouth, a feathered arrow strikes a rock inches away from his head._  
  
_The two men whirl around to face a small group of scantily clad, warpainted Reachmen that have their bow strings drawn and their spiked blades on the ready, advancing at Giraud and Viarmo from all directions. The poor Dean of History cowers in terror, his face turning the colour of the pale-grey rock around him; Viarmo steps in front of him, shielding him from their adversaries, who keep drawing nearer and nearer, and declares loudly, spreading out his arms to show that he carries no weapons,_  
  
_'Please! We are neither merchants with goods to claim, nor warriors looking for a fight! We are travelling bards; if you leave us in peace...'_  
  
_'Stay your tongue, elf,' snaps a sturdy, fierce-looking woman, with feathers and tiny animal bones woven into her thick black hair and so little covering her bare skin apart from a layer of swirl tattoos that Viarmo blushes (Illa would have found it precious). 'You are treading the land of the Forsworn - and we like making examples of trespassers'._  
  
_She signals to a man wrapped in some kind of wolf pelt skirt; he raises his hand to his mouth, pressing the side of his palm under his lips, and breathes out loudly. Viarmo's eyes widen as what looks like a miniature blizzard rushes from the Forsworn towards him and Giraud, leaving the yellow grass brittle and silvery white in its wake. Before either of them can leap aside, the frost spell envelops them, paralyzing them, making their legs grow numb; they sink to their knees, breathless with the piercing cold - and two of the Forsworn lean towards them, ready to slash their swords across their throats..._  
  
_'Weapons on the ground, in the name of the King in Rags!'_  
  
_His plan has worked, yet again. Truly, the gods are kind to Viarmo - whenever he ventures outside the walls of Solitude, he is always in for a meeting with Illa. He looks up, shivering, and smiles, despite the violent chattering of his teeth... She is so beautiful, the cowl of her many-pocketed leather armour thrown back, her eyes burning with battle fury, her curved dagger pressing into the flesh of the half-dressed woman's neck._  
_'Who... are you...' the Reachwoman chokes, measuring Illa up suspiciously over her dagger's edge as her companions slowly draw away from the kneeling men, waiting for what is to happen next._  
  
_'The right people know me as Dragonling of the Thieves Guild,' the Dunmer replies courteously. 'I helped Madanach escape from prison and went on the run with him and his men for a while - so I have officially been declared a friend of the Forsworn. But this friendship may go very, very sour if you harm these two men!'_  
  
_'Prove it,' the ice mage hisses. 'Prove that you know our King!'_  
  
_'All right,' Illa grins, releasing the Reachwoman. 'I have a set of custom armour that Madanach has given me as a sign of gratitude - if you wait just a moment, I will undress and change into it... Viarmo darling,' she glances at him over her shoulder with the most enchanting of her smiles, making a sharp tingle shoot through him - a tingle that has nothing to do with the frost spell, 'Will you give me a hand?'_  
  
_'Enough!' the Reachwoman cries out, whipping out her blade. 'No-one makes fools out of the Forsworn! You have confessed to being a thief - you could have stolen that armour anywhere!'_  
  
_'Good point,' Illa says, raising her arms in the air as the tip of the woman's sword touches her chest. 'How about this: Madanach hates it when there's too much salt in his soup; Braig's eyes swell up with blood whenever he sees a Nord; Borkul the Beast uses his shiv for knitting doilies when he thinks no-one is looking...'_  
  
_The Reachwoman grunts something incoherent, lowers her weapon, motions to her men to withdraw back into the rocky gorge from where they sprung, and follows them, swinging her bare hips indignantly._  
  
_Illa watches the Forsworn go with a smug grin and then squats next to Viarmo and Giraud._  
  
_'Can you stand?' she asks softly, stretching out her hands to both of the men._  
  
_They nod in silence; with an abrupt tug, she helps them to their feet and tosses a small red phial to each of them - coming from the mystic depths of her backpack, of course. The liquid in the phials tastes a bit like mead, with a touch of something salty; it sends a wave of warmth rushing from Viarmo's mouth to the tips of his fingers and toes, like the thrill of a kiss - glancing at Giraud, he can tell he is feeling the same. Soon, the last lingering effects of the frost magic are gone._  
  
_'Well now,' Illa says, glancing at the bards in satisfaction, 'Fancy meeting you here! This calls for a celebration! I know just the place - Old Hroldan Inn'._  
  
  
_It is not a long walk from where the Forsworn attacked them. Illa is dancing lightly down the road in between the two men; Viarmo feels her hand creeping up his back - but does not touch her, or say a word to her, all the way to the inn, sensing that Giraud is shrouded in a thundery cloak of silent disapproval. When they settle in, however, and pay for the food and board, and the Dean of History sits at the counter opposite the innkeeper and pulls out a notebook, ready to investigate the rumours about the ghost - Viarmo takes Illa by the hand and sweeps her off into their room ('Not enough bedrooms in this place! Ah, what a pity, Giraud - looks like Viarmo and I will have to share!')... Out of the corner of his eye, he can see that smart little lad, the innkeeper's son, put a moth-eaten fur hat on their door and push it shut..._  
  
  
_'Wait, wait!' Illa laughs, as she frees herself and sits on the edge of the bed. 'There is something I have brought you!'_  
  
_'What is it?' he asks in between lip bites, trying to pull her back again._  
  
_'A birthday gift,' she answers, with a sly wink._  
  
_He gives her a surprised look._  
  
_'But... I had my birthday three months ago!.. At least, I think so... At a certain point, an elf loses track of things like that'._  
  
_'I know I missed it,' she sighs. 'Believe me, I made the thing on time, but I didn't have a chance to give it to you until now. Been carrying it around for ages... Here,' jerking her shoulder to keep the strap of her smallclothes from sliding off, she reaches down to the floor where her trusty backpack lies, tossed aside in a fit of passion - and fishes out a full set of elven armour._  
  
_'I... Is this...' he whispers, stroking the gilded moonstone in disbelief as she spreads out the cuirass on the bedcovers._  
  
_'I thought it might come in handy,' she grins. 'You know, dark times and all that. Crafted it myself, thinking of you even when the blasted soot got into my eyes. Go on. Try it'._  
  
_He obeys, smiling like a boy on New Life's morning. The armour fits perfectly - Illa must know his measures by heart. He strides back and forth across the room, his hand on his hip; even though he knows he will most likely never use it, wearing this beautiful set of armour makes him feel like a hero out of the songs he sings._  
  
_Illa watches him from the bed, her eyes glowing with fondness._  
  
_'You are so handsome I'm gonna die,' she murmurs as he strolls towards her, takes off his helmet and stands in front of her on one knee, like a knight out of a story book (which is actually a little silly, since they are in an inn room and Illa is almost naked)._  
  
_'Your talents know no bounds,' he says, kissing her hand. 'This is the most beautiful piece of craftsmanship I have ever seen. The helmet alone is a masterpiece!'_  
  
_'Thank you,' she whispers; he can swear she is blushing, for what must be the first time in her life. 'I tried so hard to get all those feather-like thingies right... Always wondered why High Elves make their helmets look like birds...'_  
  
_'Not just birds,' he explains, sitting next to her and putting his arm round her shoulders; she shudders a little when the metal touches her bare skin. 'Eagles. An eagle is an important symbol in my people's culture - in many respects, they are like the Altmer... The proudest of all the birds... Did you know,' he adds, cupping his fingers round her chin, 'That an eagle finds a single soulmate for his entire life? It is the same with the Altmer. We fall in love only once, but for a whole eternity...'_  
  


  
'Now look what you are doing! Ruining a fine set of armour with that blighted tear! Wipe it off this instant!'  
  
Viarmo was brought back to reality by the sound of an echoing ghostly voice. Slowly, struggling to keep calm, he lifted his head and stared right into the glowing eyes of Modryn Oreyn.  
  
'You have a lot of nerve, showing your dead face here,' he breathed. ‘After you failed Illa'.  
  
'How dare you accuse me of such things?!' Modryn roared, the outline of his ethereal figure beginning to glow bright crimson. 'I did not fail her! If anything, she failed me!'  
  
'What?!' Viarmo whirled to his feet, shaking with grief and anger. 'You were her ancestor guardian! You were supposed to keep her safe! And instead, you let her die!'  
  
Each word tore its way out of his throat with a tremendous effort, as though he were extracting arrow tips from a wound. And as he yelled at the ghost, deafened by the rush of blood in his ears, he felt his fingertips tingle - it felt rather like his hand had gone to sleep and was slowly waking up. Magic.  
  
Like most High Elves, he had been born with a natural gift for casting spells, and managed to learn a couple under the guidance of his parents, who were both battlemages - and avid experimenters in the Destruction school. But when he reached an age when youths, men and mer alike, start standing up to their elders and challenging their ways, he ran away from home, not wishing to follow in his parents' footsteps and use magic to bring suffering and death to others. Instead, he chose to pursue his other talent, which his mother and father had always mocked, calling it a complete waste of time and effort. He became a bard.  
  
Ever since that stormy night when, curled up on the floor and shuddering with nauseous spasms, he lay in the hold of a ship leaving Alinor, Viarmo had been suppressing his magical ability. It grew easier over the years, and if you asked one of the Bards' College apprentices if they thought their Headmaster could cast spells, they would most likely reply in the negative... But there were still times when the magic burst through - usually when Viarmo was very angry. When, sitting at the bedside of his feverish, delirious wife in the Temple of Mara, he learned of her countless infidelities, he punched the wall a few times - and also set several pews on fire. When he confronted those blackguards who dared to call Illa a 'filthy grey-skin' - which happened several times - he would often find himself enhancing his own stamina so he could smear the insolent wretches over the ground. And now, facing the ghost of Illa's grandfather, completely consumed by his rage, he suddenly realized that there was a sword hilt, glowing and half-transparent, forming between his fingers. When the blade appeared, wrought out of a billowing purple flame, he let out a short cry and sank it into Modryn's chest. With a faint hiss, the ghost evaporated into this air, and Viarmo was left alone in the room, panting, blinded by angry tears.  
  
'So you know how to bind a weapon? Good; you might need that skill - and your armour, too'.  
  
After a few minutes of complete silence, Modryn's disembodied voice rang out of nowhere, making Viarmo start and look around wildly, the summoned sword still shimmering in his hand.  
  
'Show yourself!' the bard cried, slashing at thin air.  
  
'Not now; not when you insist on punching a hole in me,' the ghost replied, sounding very offended. 'Listen closely: Illa is not dead. Although she is not technically alive either. She has become a vampire. I have learned of a cure - it requires a black soul gem. Obviously, I cannot retrieve it alone. I need a pair of mortal hands. And your hands seem as good as any'.  
  
The bound blade disappeared in a small cloud of smoke. Viarmo clenched his fists and stood with his legs wide apart, trying hard to keep standing upright despite the room insisting on spinning round and round him, in tune with the frenzied pulsing of his heart. This was almost too much to take in... Illa... His beloved Illa was not dead! She had not been taken away from him! At least... not completely... So now he knew what that horrible nightmare meant. Illa reaching out to him, trapped beneath the ice... As the Divines were his witnesses, he would do anything to set her free! Even if that meant...  
  
'Queen Potema's catacombs,' Viarmo said quietly, wiping the sweat off his forehead. 'Deep beneath the city. She.. She was a necromancer. There is bound to be at least one soul gem left intact in her chambers'.  
  
'Good thinking, bard' odd as it may have seemed, Modryn sounded... pleased. Approving. 'You may not be a Dunmer, but you might yet prove yourself worthy of marrying an Oreyn. Now, are you ready to stop telling stories and become one?'


	2. New Developments

'I have never cared for the Imperial religion, but when I was alive, it was always the Nine this and the Nine that, Talos guide you, Talos protect you... This blank niche over there just seems so... odd...'  
  
'Not so loud!' Viarmo hissed, glancing round frantically. Thankfully, it was not prayer service time yet, and the Temple was almost deserted; the priests were going about their business somewhere upstairs, and no one seemed to have noticed that he had sauntered on holy ground, so awkward and clumsy in a clanking heap of metal, talking to a ghost - and on forbidden subjects, too. 'You know that's a very delicate matter these days, right?'  
  
Modryn sneered.  
  
'What, do you think your friends in robes are going to pounce on us and try to arrest me? That would be a sight to see!'  
  
'I am no friend of the Thalmor!' Viarmo mouthed indignantly. 'Just because I am an Altmer does not mean I support that elven supremacy nonsense! Bards should remain neutral observers in any conflict - our job is to record history, not take sides! I would just... really appreciate it if you kept it down. The last thing we want is attracting the priests' attention. You don't want to be sanctified, do you?'  
  
The spectre rolled up his eyes in exasperation - but refrained from further comments on the missing altar, or on anything else. In silence, they made their way towards a dark, remote part of the Temple, where a small flight of stone steps turned sharply downward. Viarmo rustled through a book on the Wolf Queen he had brought tucked under his arm, and nodded curtly. This was where the Catacombs lay, sealed off to protect the people of Solitude should Potema's dark magic awaken again. Viarmo did not even try to approach the Jarl's court or the priests about giving him access to the ancient dungeons - he knew they would not risk the safety of the entire city for the sake of one desperate elf. He did not dare mention this to Modryn - the ghost would have surely fried him to a crisp - but he had no idea how he was going to get in, and was secretly hoping that, like at a recital when you forget your lines, things would sort themselves out if he just improvised...  
  
Miraculously enough, they did - but not quite in a way Viarmo would have preferred. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, they both froze, stunned by the sight before them.  
  
The sturdy metal bars, separating the Temple's undercroft from the wall that concealed the Catacombs' entrance, were bent and mangled, as if some monstrous beast had chewed its way through them. The wall itself had crumbled down, forming a gaping black hole with unnaturally cold air seeping through it - Viarmo shuddered uncomfortably at its chilling touch and passed his hand across the back of his neck, where a slip of bare skin was just visible between the helmet and the armour; and even Modryn, undead as he was, flexed his shoulders and frowned, his pallid face grim and apprehensive.  
  
Mesmerized by the eerie darkness of the Catacombs, they did not even notice straight away that there was a silent struggle unfolding in a shadowy corner of the undercroft, among cobwebbed crates and sacks with the priests' supplies. A loud thud of something heavy against the wood made Viarmo tear his gaze away from the gap in the wall - right on time, too, for he thought he was beginning to hear a soft, rustling whisper, beckoning him to enter the darkness, to embrace it, to become one with it, to serve it...  
  
When he was finally able to make out what was going on to the broken gate's side, he let out a short, startled cry and dropped his tome. Even though he had read many a book that described them, nothing could have really prepared him for the first sight of the draugr. Hideous human-like forms, their bones covered by remainders of withered tissues like by layers of thick, sticky, sickly grey fleshy cobwebs, they lay on the dusty floor, almost blending in with it, a black arrow sticking out of the chest of each. But there was one among them that still retained the unnatural, evil force that kept it moving; it burned a cold, lifeless blue flame in the corpse's empty sockets. The last remaining draugr was sitting on top of a dark, hooded figure - alive or undead, Viarmo could not tell, even though he had slowly begun to draw closer, for every inch of its body was concealed by some kind of elaborate black leather armour. The corpse's hands were locked round its victim's throat, their deathly pallor almost glowing against the dark cowl; the hooded stranger was kicking at the air and clawing the stone in silent desperation, but the bony dead fingers did not let go, closing in tighter and tighter...   
  
Viarmo lifted his hand to his own throat. Whoever that stranger was, friend ir foe, he was not about to let them die like that.  
  
'Sera Oreyn...' he said hesitantly. 'Could you... Use one of your powers? '  
  
The ghost pursed his lips.  
  
'I can only do this to protect a member of my family,' he groused. 'Use your own skills! You aren't expecting me to baby-sit you the entire way, are you?'  
  
'Fine; I'll try!'  
  
The bard swallowed, half-closing his eyes and waiting for the magic, which he had deliberately kept asleep within himself, to come alive again. And suddenly, uncontrollably, as it so often happened to him these last few weeks, his mind was flooded by a bright, vivid vision, clearer than the image of the undercroft, of a blazing-eyed, seething Modryn, of the hooded stranger struggling with the draugr...  
  
Illa, laughing and out of breath, throwing herself into her seat at the dinner table, on a golden afternoon in Solitude, shortly after their marriage. And himself, bending across to kiss her...

 

  
  
  
_'Where have you been?' he asks, brushing his fingers along her cheek._   
  
_'Target practice at Castle Dour. Nothing like pulling back the string and letting the arrow hit the heart of that evil, evil straw dummy!' she grins at him. 'You should try it out some time!'_   
  
_'Love, you know I am a bard, not a warrior,' he replies softly, drawing away and watching her tuck greedily into her meal. 'I have never lifted a weapon in my life!'_   
  
_'Being a bard does not exclude being a warrior,' she objects, her mouth full. 'Take Vivec, for example - one of the bunch my people used to worship as living gods before that whole Blight and Red Year mess. There's a warrior poet for you! His name even starts with the same letter as yours. V. Vehk. I really like the sound of that: Vehk for Viarmo...'_   
  
_The plate she is eating from rattles warningly; the watchful Modryn does not approve of her speaking lightly of the Tribunal. She sticks her tongue out at the unseen ghost and, digging her spoon deep into her pie slice, lifts it to her husband's mouth._   
  
_'Aren't you hungry? Don't you want to grow into a big and strong warrior poet?'_   
  
_Laughing, he lets her spoon-feed him, and purr silly, sweet things into his ear, and call him her little Vehk..._   
  


 

  
  
As always, the recollection of Illa tore at his heart, stirring the old wound left by losing her, over and over again, first to her own shame and guilt, then - as he wrongly believed - to death, and finally, to vampirism... The surge of gripping pain shot through his entire body - and when it reached the tips of his right hand's fingers, it burst out in a jet of purple flame that swirled and shimmered, shaping itself into a jagged blade.  
  
He did not remember rushing to the corner and sinking his conjured sword into the draugr's back; his mind cleared only when the corpse sank to the floor, a hoarse, rasping sound escaping its lifeless lungs, and with one last, blinding flash, the blue glow in its eyes went out.  
  
'Well, that's more like it,' Modryn grumbled under his breath. 'Next time, cut all the gaping and you might make a half-decent strike'.  
  
The draugr's victim scrambled to her feet - the armour was quite tight-fitting, and from a close distance Viarmo could easily make out the outline of a feminine figure - and, twirling round, brushed the dust off her legs. The bard did not hurry to extinguish the flame of his bound blade; not seeing the stranger's face beneath that black cowl of hers made him feel uneasy. She must have noticed the suspicion in his eyes, as presently he heard her chuckle - rather hoarsely, for she had evidently not quite recovered from the draugr's smothering grip.  
  
'Don't worry, we are on the same side, you and I', she said, clearing her throat. 'I have done nothing that might make you want to arrest me. I am a rogue and a treasure hunter, not a heretic'.  
  
'Heretic?' Viarmo echoed, taken aback.  
  
She stood on tiptoe to take a closer look at his face.  
  
'Wait, so you are not with the Thalmor?'  
  
'Don't get him started on lecturing you on stereotypes,' Modryn warned, emerging from behind Viarmo's back.  
  
The mysterious woman leapt back with a loud yelp and reached instinctively behind her back.  
  
'You bow has been knocked behind a crate over there,' Modryn said curtly. 'Though you have no reason for using it on either of us. Not after this dunce of a bard over here has just saved your life'.  
  
'Yes, thank you for that'.   
  
She squatted down and groped in the dust for her bow, black as her armour and just as beautifully crafted; her head was still turned towards Viarmo, and when she retrieved her weapon and straightened herself up, she asked slowly,  
  
'A bard, are you? Your name wouldn't happen to be Viarmo?'  
  
The Altmer grew pale, and the blade in his hand dissolved. For a wild, insane moment, he was overwhelmed by a ridiculous wish that the face beneath the cowl were Illa's; that if he pulled back the dark fabric, he would be in for a reunion fit for a novel... But no, it couldn't possibly be her. Though the woman's built and choice of a bow as her weapon was painfully reminiscent of his wife, the way she spoke was completely unlike Illa's velvety drawl... He had never heard this voice before. So the natural question was...  
  
'How... How do you know my name?..' he felt the skin underneath his moustache grow wet, and his lips tingled with the salty taste of sweat. 'Show your face!'  
  
After a few seconds of hesitation, she threw back her hood. Viarmo winced as his heart gave an unpleasant jolt. She was a Dunmer, like Illa... Though no, not quite... Her eyes were shaded far lighter than the rich, wine-like red so common for her kin; she had to be a half-blood, born to a Dunmeri mother and a father of a different race. Perhaps this vibrant lilac was the colour his and Illa's child's eyes would have had, if they ever... If only...  
  
'You do not know me,' the woman said, with a small smile, 'But I know you. Dragonling and I would talk about you all night through at times, while I was teaching her to brew poisons for her arrows...'  
  
'Dragonling...' Viarmo muttered, his eyes poring into the woman's. 'That is my wife's alias within the Thieves' Guild...'  
  
'Was,' she corrected him. 'She quit, right after putting an end to the curse that had plagued us for so long'.  
  
'I was there,' Modryn piped in pompously, 'Though I did not grace those lowlives with a manifestation. I watched unseen as the events unfolded. Illari refused to join that shady Nocturnal cult, offering another thief to take her place'.  
  
'The Nightingale Trinity is not a shady cult!' the woman frowned. '...And you must be Modryn the self-righteous Ancestor Guardian. And here I was, thinking that you were some kind of conjurer's summon!'  
  
The ghost's eyes flashed bright red, but she ignored him, addressing her next question solely to Viarmo, 'What are you doing here? Where is Dragonling? Did she return to you, like she wanted?'  
  
He shook his head. He probably should not have told her; he was still unsure about whether to trust her or not - but he had been silent for so long... The words, the countless epithets and metaphors that he kept inventing, instinctively, uncontrollably, came rushing out in a powerful torrent; though his eyes were dry, it felt like weeping...  
  
'Last time we met, she talked about joining the Companions... Clearing her name, winning back my love through good and honourable deeds... Even though I told her it was needless; that she had nothing to win back, nothing to prove, no prize to jostle for... I had forgiven her long ago; all that mattered to me was being with her again, spending every living breathing moment at her side... But she was too stubborn to listen. She went off into the morning mist after yet another of our brief meetings - I guess that if she left the Thieves Guild, she did have plans to become a hero of the people. I waited patiently for her, holding my breath every time I ventured out of Solitude on College business, hoping, praying for a chance encounter... till one day, news came of her death. It felt like my heart was a river that had run dry, with nothing remaining on the bottom but cracks and dust... And then... Then Modryn appeared and told me that Illa was not, in fact, dead... That she was undead - a vampire. My beautiful Dunmeri rose, withered by the breath of cold winter; twisted into something dark and evil... I... I am here to find a cure for her - to bring her back into the sunlight, into my arms...'   
  
By the end of his little speech, he had to lower himself onto a large grey flour sack, his fingers in his hair, staring ahead of him. Modryn had been watching him with his eyes narrowed, as though the unfortunate bard was a new blade he was sizing up before giving it a few swings; the woman, in turn, had knelt next to Viarmo and when he fell silent, touched his arm gently with her fingertips.  
  
'I am so sorry... I know how it feels, to have loved and lost... If you only let me, I will help you in any way I can. Everyone at the Guild was livid when Dragonling left - but I understood and respected her desire to find happiness. She told me she wished to go back to the man she loved - and I will try and make it happen; I owe her that much. I wanted to delve into the Catacombs on a looting expedition, to keep my skills from getting rusty - but this is much more important'.  
  
'Oh great,' Modryn cheered sarcastically. 'Now we have an outlaw on the team!'  
  
'Even Queen Barenziah was an outlaw at one time, you know,' the woman said teasingly, looking up at him. Illa must have told her about her way of responding to the grumpy Ancestor Guardian.  
  
'What is with you and comparing yourselves to prominent personalities from my people's history?!' Modryn exclaimed. 'First, Lord Vivec, now Barenziah...'  
  
'Well, you can be Mannimarco the King of Worms, for variety's sake,' Viarmo suggested with a small smile, raising himself from his sack and taking a deep, calming breath of air.  
  
The woman got to her feet as well, snickering at the bard's words; he joined her, the laughter soothing his aching chest like a healing potion.  
  
The ghost pouted.  
  
'Are we getting a move on or not?' he asked sharply. 'So far this tale of ours has been nothing but useless dialogues!'  
  
To set an example for the undisciplined mortals, he glided towards the dark hole. His spectral aura cast a faint, shimmering blue light on the ancient walls, and the bard and the rogue were able to make out the beginning of a narrow corridor with an arched ceiling. Shaking his head violently to chase away the whispers, which seemed to have stirred again, Viarmo stepped over the gap's threshold; the dark-armoured woman leapt in after him, landing on the floor with Khajiit-like grace. It could have been just Viarmo's imagination, but the air on the other side of the wall seemed colder, and there were faint wisps of silvery mist twisting round the mortal intruders' legs like ghostly chains.  
  
'Turn to me if you are frightened,' the woman said to Viarmo. 'I am at home in the shadows'.  
  
'I am not frightened,' he replied through gritted teeth. 'I can't afford to be'.  
  
'Come on, bard, thief!' the ghost urged them impatiently. 'The plan is to find a black soul gem and get out of here - so move!'  
  
'My name is Karliah,' the woman remarked as they began their way down the dark passage, 'And your friend here has a name too. Starts with a vehk'.  
  
  


  
***  
  


  
  
'You know what,' Serana said thoughtfully, taking a sip from her goblet - fresh marauder blood, harvested by the eager Dunmeri newcomer on the coast of Haafingar, 'I think he did it on purpose'.  
  
'Pardon me, milady?' the newest member of the Volkihar clan asked, her tone both polite and curious.  
  
'I think that Father erased your memory when he turned you,' the older vampiress explained, tearing her gaze away from the glittering, moonlit ice that spread out like the spoils of some enormous diamond mine beneath the balcony on which the two women stood, enjoying the beauty of the night. Her fiery orange eyes bored intently into the Dunmer's. 'With Illusion magic. They do this to our cattle all the time, so that they do not escape'.  
  
'I am afraid I do not follow,' the Dunmer said, frowning. Much as she revelled in using the powers Lord Harkon had given her, much as she enjoyed clearing out outlaw camps in her Vampire Lord form and frightening superstitious peasants, it was more than evident that she did not approve of keeping prisoners in the dungeons as a constant supply of blood; she avoided the subject in conversations with fellow vampires whenever possible. Still, Serana pressed on.  
  
'It is Vingalmo's theory. When a mortal has something that he might want to go back to - family, friends, guild duties - he is very difficult to bend to your will. But once you make him forget about his past life, it is easy to convince him that he has always been a thrall, that it is his destiny - and he becomes meek as a sheep in a paddock'.  
  
The Dunmer shuddered.  
  
'And you think... That Lord Harkon has done the same thing to me? Why?'  
  
Serana glanced back and flicked her fingers to make the bolts on the balcony door slide shut.  
  
'When he was sizing you up in the feast hall after you'd just brought me back - when you were still that ragged, skinny little werewolf the Clan found in chains in the Hall of the Vigilant,' she said in an intense half-whisper, 'I could swear he was reading your thoughts, studying your mind... He must have sensed you would be of use to him - but only if he severed all the ties to your past'.  
  
The Dunmer shook her head from side to side in disbelief.  
  
Serana's words had brought back the only memory she had that preceded awakening on the cold stone floor next to an altar to Molag Bal, her neck throbbing with flame-like pain, her senses suddenly sharpened, her whole body transformed into a new entity, beautiful and utterly terrifying... She recalled the dimly lit feast hall, the blood splatters on the walls and floor, the gaunt, watchful faces peering at her from the shadows with blazing, hungry eyes - and Lord Harkon, towering over her pathetic, cowering little self, her reflection shimmering in the depths of his eyes like in a pool of melted, red-hot metal...  
  
No. She hurried to dispel the memory, to chase it back into the far reaches of her mind. No. She respected Lady Serana immensely - but this time, she was wrong. She had to be. There was no past before the newcomer had been turned; the Clan had rescued her, brought meaning into her life... She was Dunriel now, the dark jewel of Clan Volkihar. And she had always been Dunriel; this was her destiny.  
  
'It is not my place to question the lady of the castle,' the Dunmer said stiffly, after a lengthy pause, 'But I think your age-long disagreement with Lord Harkon has clouded your judgment. How can you possibly know that there were ties to sever in the first place?'  
  
Serana sighed and took the Dunmer's hand in hers.  
  
'A while back, when that raid on the Bards' College went sour, something changed about you,' she said quietly, her expression growing uncannily gentle, concerned, which made her appear almost... human. 'I was worried about you, I don't know why... Maybe I have started considering you a friend, in that foolish human way... In any case, for the past few days I... I have been watching you sleep. Shifting the lid of your coffin and taking a good, long look at your face - and listening to you mutter to yourself. You are haunted by the same dream every day, are you not? It has something to do with your past - to a man that you used to love... that you love still, but cannot remember'.  
  
Dunriel crumbled her metal goblet in her fist as though it were cut out of paper and let out a loud hiss of pain and rage. She did not what she might have done - she could well have lashed out at Serana and caused her needless harm... But fortunately for the Lady, at that precise moment the Dunmer froze with her hands clawing at her head, which was suddenly pierced by a loud, cold, echoing voice, speaking only to Dunriel, singing to her, flowing through her body, spreading its dark wings within her mind...  
  


  
_Remember me, little one? I am the spirit you stopped from being bound to the wills of a pathetic handful of foolish necromancers. You defeated them and set me free. I have retreated to my old home, in the catacombs beneath Solitude. I do not have a mortal vessel to inhabit, but my power is slowly returning to me. Each day, I grow ever stronger - now I am strong enough to reach out to you and beckon you to return to my fold. We have a connection, you and I; it formed when you interrupted the ritual, and I can use it to draw you to me. Serve me, little one. Bow to your mistress. You are undead now, are you not? I am the queen of the undead - I have raised armies of your kind before, and I shall do it again! With your help, little one, I shall make the world tremble as it did of yore! Come, little one; come to your queen!'_

  
  
'Dunriel?' Serana called out anxiously. 'Dunriel, are you all right? Can you hear me?'

  
  
The Dunmer made no reply; her face wiped blank of all expression, she drew herself up to her full height and crossed her arms on her chest. Like a blot of ink spreading across a thin sheet of paper, a swirling dark cloud swelled up beneath her heart and crawled all across her body, up her neck to her head, and down along her stiffened limbs. Soon, it engulfed her whole, and beneath its smoky shroud, Dunriel's body moulded into another form. Her head bulged monstrously, her features twisting till they resembled those of a gigantic bat; her fingers grew longer and sprouted hard, glistening, curved claws - and a pair of webbed wings shot out of her back, now broad and slightly hunched. The cloud dispersed, revealing Dunriel in the full glory of her Vampire Lord form - and before the stunned Serana could do anything to stop her, the transformed vampiress spread out her wings and soared on them into the air. Rising over the balcony and turning towards Solitude, Dunriel burst into a rustling cloud of bats and disappeared. If, back in her catacombs, the Wolf Queen had found a suitable physical form to possess, she would have leered in malicious triumph. Not even the powerful Volkihar vampires could resist Potema's magic.


	3. Through Dungeons Deep

With the confident air of an experienced thief 'casing the joint', Karliah declared,  
  
'I don't think Potema would keep her black soul gems just lying around. We need to find some kind of study or laboratory...'  
  
The bard and the ghost had no objections to the plan, so on the trio pressed through the shadows.   
  
The corridor did not seem half as sinister once the eyes of the two mortals got used to the dark. It was the same cobwebbed junk piled up beneath an arching ceiling as on the other side of the hole. There was the cold, of course, and the eerie mist - but they could easily pretend it did not exist if they focused on other things. Like teasing Modryn.  
  
'So, uh, how exactly do you draw those ghostly stick figures Dragonling told me so much about?' Karliah asked in a lowered voice, glancing over her shoulder at Viarmo to check how the bard was coping with his very first delve into a haunted dungeon. 'Do you dab your finger in ectoplasm?'  
  
The spectre made no reply. He just pursed his lips tighter than he had ever done before, and floated ahead, away from his flesh-and-blood companions, his head thrown up so high and proud that every now and again his mohawk went through the ceiling. He did not even deign to turn back when the little procession found its way blocked by several thick metal bars; he simply sailed past the barrier, slipping right through the bars like scrib jelly slips off a knife, and glided on down the corridor, his back towards the bard and the thief, his arms on his chest, the picturesque curve of his nostrils speaking a thousand words.  
  
Running up to the bars and stopping in front of them, Viarmo closed his fingers round the rusty metal - wincing a little at how cold it felt - and gave the barrier a loud rattle.  
  
'Hey!' he called out to Modryn, starting at the pulsing echo of his own voice that rolled through the dusty corridor like a wave rushing towards the shore. 'Will you please stop sulking and give us a hand?! Maybe look for a lever on your side?'  
  
 _'There will be no need to, little mortals...'_  
  
The bard staggered back, raising his hand to his eyes as the pale mist swirling round his feet suddenly rose up and erupted into a bright blue-and-purple flame that licked at his and Karliah's bodies. Its soft, silky tongues did not scorch them - quite to the contrary, their caress chilled their skin even beneath the armour and made their hearts shrink into tiny tense lumps, like little forest beasts that sense a hunter. And together with the flame, came a voice - or perhaps the voice and the flame were one... ensnaring, beautiful even, and yet so cold...  
  
 _'I do not know what you seek in my halls - treasure, perhaps? Adventure? Secrets of my craft?' the voice sang slowly, resonating through the empty corridor. 'I will let you in regardless. My little pets have slept so long - they need exercise. Welcome to my catacombs, my precious intruders; when you die, I will raise you and you can take your places at my side. And you, dear departed soul...' Modryn stopped his stubborn gliding forward and spun around in the air, looking alarmed. 'I will see if I can turn you to my side...'_  
  
The last melodious syllable faded away into a rustling echo - and when it was completely consumed by silence, the metal bars retracted into the floor, welcoming the little adventuring party to enter.  
  
Karliah stepped over the slots in the stone that had sucked in the bars, and beckoned to Viarmo to follow her.  
  
'That... That must have been the Wolf Queen...' the bard said faintly, his face a white waxen mask. 'She has not been completely banished, after all... Oh gods, what have we walked into...'  
  
Karliah peered into his face, eyes narrowed.  
  
'You cannot afford to be frightened, remember?' she said sternly.   
  
Viarmo nodded. The thief was right. Whatever dark magic Potema's spirit was brewing to greet her guests, fear meant failure, and failure was not an option. He was doing this for Illa - and to be reunited with her, he would turn mountains... perhaps even literally, if given the necessary tools.  
  
'I wonder what sort of pets our queen keeps...' he muttered to himself, rekindling his bound blade spell.  
  
The answer did not wait too long to present itself. The trio had hardly made a dozen steps further down this new section of the dungeon, when two shadowy figures separated themselves from the murky niches on the corridor's sides. Vampires. Viarmo had recognized the creatures from the books he had read - but no story in the world could possibly provide a sufficient description of those gaunt, lifeless faces, of those predatory mouths with bared fangs and a purple line running across the thin, cracked lips, imitating a bat's cleft. In life, one of the monstrous beings had evidently been a man and the other a woman; they were clad in faded crimson finery, as ancient as the dungeons where they had been slumbering, and there were cobwebs trailing after them like extensions of their clawed fingers. They stood face to face with Viarmo and Karliah; their flattened, slit-like nostrils quivered, feasting on the smell of living blood, and their blank eyes came alive, burning with malice. Karliah drew the string of her bow and fired a swift, precise shot at the male vampire; but before the metal could sink into the pale, lifeless flesh of his chest, he disappeared in a wisp of black smoke, and the arrow rattled down to the floor, useless like a stick tossed aside by a child that had gotten tired of playing with it.  
  
Viarmo, in the meanwhile, had charged at the vampiress. It had taken him a fracture of a second to take in her ghastly, twisted features - a mere fracture of a second, and his heart was already completely consumed by a wild blaze of pain and horror and rage... So his Illa, his beautiful Illa, so charming, so full of life - had turned into this... He had had nightmarish visions of what his wife might have become... but they were nothing like the creature that was now snarling hungrily at him. Screaming as though someone had run a red-hot bar of metal through his heart, he leapt at the vampiress and stabbed her blindly in the chest, her dark blood spurting out and getting into his eyes, till he was stopped by the chilling touch of the ghost's hand on his shoulder.  
  
'That's quite enough. You are wasting precious stamina'.  
  
With an incoherent groan, Viarmo tore himself away from the vampiress, allowing her body to thud to the floor, where it slowly crumbled away into ashes that mixed with the age-old dust. It was only then that he noticed a spike of ice sticking out of his stomach - the vampiress must have managed to wound him with her magic, somehow bypassing his armour - and his body decided that it was time to drown in a torrent of pain, and his legs decided that it was time to go numb. Modryn's eyes flashed - if the bard did not know better, he would have thought the ghost was worried. He tried to support Viarmo, but his arms, no matter how strong in life, were of little use now, and the bard sank to his knees, his teeth chattering with cold.   
  
Just like its perished caster, the ice spike was feeding on his blood, draining all his life force out of him. Plunged into a strange state between waking and dream, he felt himself sinking into a soft, snowy-white bed, covered with cool sheets, crispy clean as the icy crust on the hills in the morning...  
  
'Don't fall asleep! Do you hear me? Don't fall asleep!'  
  
Viarmo blinked. The world around him was shrouded by a shimmering, hazy veil, and the shard of ice seemed to be sinking deeper and deeper into his body... He could almost see it cutting a bloody path through his sinews, which made it hard for him to focus - but he still could make out a dark spot swimming before his eyes. A face. A Dunmer's face. The bard smiled groggily.  
  
'Illa...' he slurred, happy and relieved despite the pain. 'Love... I had the strangest dream... I don't think I'm fully awake yet... But I will wake up... And then the wound will go away... And the dungeon... And you will be lying next to me... Alive...'  
  
'It's me, Karliah - and you are not dreaming. Here, drink this'.  
  
Someone's hand parted his jaws, and he could feel glass clink against his upper front teeth. He swallowed obediently. The unknown liquid scorched his throat; the pain melted away together with the ice spike, and the haze cleared. He was on the floor in Potema's catacombs, the thief was leaning over him, a flask in her hand, and the ghost was hovering behind her back, obviously irritated at how long it took the greenhorn fighter to recover.  
  
'Good thing I always carry one of these,' Karliah said brightly, helping Viarmo to his feet. 'I used the same potion to nurse your wife back to health when she was wounded by our treacherous guild master. Though, ironically, no potion would have helped if I hadn't poisoned her first...'   
  
Viarmo narrowed his eyes threateningly, his fingers twitching, as if he was about to summon his ghostly blade again. The thief hurried to reassure him.  
  
'I meant her no harm - it was the only was to save her. I sacrificed months and months of patient work and dreams of vengeance - all for the sake of the little thief I did not even know at the time... Funny thing...' she added, with a thoughtful frown, 'When she was coming to her senses, I think she also muttered some nonsense about waking up from a dream... and your chest hair....'  
  
The bard opened his mouth, his face alight with eager interest; but the ghost did not let him as much as begin questioning Karliah further (on various subjects, including whether she was sure that the chest hair Illa mentioned was his and not someone else's).  
  
'Are you going to throw a fainting fit every time you are as much as scratched?' Modryn asked sharply. 'That makes you a pretty useless fighter'.  
  
'Useless?!' Viarmo choked in indignation. His voice might have been just a tiny bit too loud - now that he had mulled over Karliah's words, he was beginning to feel rather ashamed of himself for having mistaken her for Illa and spouted all that pathetic nonsense; and every story book will tell you that anger is one of shame's favourite masks...  'And flying around while the others are shedding blood is _so_ not useless!'  
  
'Well, please forgive me for having my throat slit and turning into a ghost!' Modryn sneered. 'I assure you it won't happen again!'  
  
'Gentlemer, please!' Karliah said loudly, standing in between the bard and the spectre with her arms spread out wide. 'Can we focus on the task at hand? That other vampire, the one that dodged my arrow, is still...'

  
  
She was going to say 'still out there', but what happened next rendered this comment pretty much redundant. The vampire had re-emerged a little way further down the corridor, where it ended in a steep flight of wooden steps - and was now advancing at the three intruders... Accompanied by reinforcements, too - two draugr, looking taller and more menacing that the ones Karliah had battled back in the undercroft, and wearing mismatched pieces of dark, mouldy armour.   
  
The thief whipped her bow from behind her back again and shot at the draugr nearest to her, aiming in between his eyes. The shambling corpse swayed a little - and then shambled on, the arrow sticking out of its forehead like some bizarre foreign growth; it would have looked comical, had not it been so blood-curdling. The second draugr, on the other hand, slowed down, clenched its gnarled fingers into fists and breathed out a short word that lashed at the air like the strike of an axe,  
  
'Fus!'  
  
Karliah staggered, hit in the chest by an invisible wave that swept from the draugr. Taking advantage of her lowering her bow, the vampire followed his late companion's example and fired an ice spike. He missed, but not by much; before shattering against the wall, the cold glowing shard grazed Karliah's skin. Viarmo rushed to the thief's aid, but found his path blocked by the arrowstruck draugr, which swung a war axe at him - chipped and covered in mildew, but still frighteningly sharp.  
  
His arm acting before his head could give it a coherent command, Viarmo blocked the draugr's strike with his bound sword; but the instance their weapons ground against one another, he realized that he would not be able to hold the draugr back for long. As the bard stared into the creature's blank glowing eyes, the muscles of his arm twisting themselves into screaming knots, he forced himself to think of Illa. Illa. Nothing else but Illa. Her mischievous smile. Her soft red hair underneath his fingers. Her eyes, burning with passion, or sparkling with laughter, or clouded by a sudden sad thought... Svaknir's lute, did that bag of bones seriously think that it could stand between him and his goal, him and his lost wife?!...   
  
Apparently, it not only did think so, but also had every reason for it. At long last, Viarmo lowered his aching arm, his spell going out with a faint sizzle, and leapt aside to dodge the draugr's axe. As he did so, he tripped over some piece of Third Era crockery and fell, rather painfully, on his back. The living corpse loomed over him, apparently making sure that its strike wouldn't miss; out of the corner of his eye, Viarmo could see Karliah cornered by the vampire and the other draugr...  
  
'If you want to claim these mortals, you will have to deal with me first'.  
  
The vampire looked away from the thief, who was holding him and the draugr off using her bow instead of a shield, and bared his fangs in a mocking leer.  
  
'Why should I be afraid of you, spectre?' he asked in a guttural, raspy voice, casting a contemptuous look at Modryn, who was hovering in front of him with a very resolute air. 'You wield no weapon or spell'.  
  
'Just follow me down these stairs, to where there is more space,' the ghost replied calmly, 'And we will battle. You, me, and your bony pets. We fight for the lives of these mortals. What say you?'  
  
The vampire mused for a while, his clammy fingers stroking his chin.  
  
'I have slept for so long before my queen called me,' he said at length. 'I long for... amusement. Very well, spectre. We shall fight'.  
  
He snapped his fingers, and the two draugr left their victims be and waddled off after the vampire and the ghost, down the wooden steps and into a wider chamber with a long table in the middle.  
  
'What is he playing at?!' Viarmo asked in a fierce whisper, pushing him to his feet and limping up to Karliah. 'These creatures will slice him into shreds, he will fly off to Azura's, and then they will turn on us again!'  
  
The thief shook her head slowly, her eyes fixed on the dungeon's ceiling.   
  
'I think our see-through friend took a pretty good look at this place when he flew ahead,' she said, raising her bow.  
  
Viarmo followed the direction of her gaze - and smiled, understanding dawning on him.  
  
'That sly old dog,' he muttered. And, with a small start, realized that his tone was... warm. Almost caring.  
  
'Clear the view for me,' Karliah said curtly, jerking her head to make the bard step aside. 'We don't have much time before the vampire realizes it's a trap'.  
  


  
When they reached the bottom of the stairs, the vampire stopped and folded his arms on his chest, the two draugr standing guard behind his back.   
  
'Well?' he asked impatiently. 'Shall we begin?'  
  
Modryn stretched himself and flicked a speck off his ghostly armour.  
  
'Have you heard the tale of the Blackwood Company and the treachery of Leyawiin?' he said casually, floating back and forth in front of the vampire.  
  
His adversary apparently was not too fond of making small talk; his thick black eyebrows knitting together in an irritated frown, he strode forward towards the ghost, lighting up an orb of blood-red light in his hand - and then froze, and glanced down at his boots, and lifted his foot, shaking off the gooey, oily liquid he had stepped in. His pale pupils dilated in alarm; he threw back his head and let out a hiss-like curse, as he caught a glimpse of an ancient ceramic lamp, still lit by some ancient magic, hanging from the ceiling directly over his head. That was when Karliah released her bow string.   
  
Viarmo had once heard a legend about a madman who set an entire city on fire so he could look on from a hilltop and compose poetry. And, morbid as it was, he thought he understood how that must have felt. It took the large pool on the floor less than a second to burst into flames, and as he watched the fire swirl in a deadly dance, so bright, so strong, humming a faint melody, a dark song of pain and destruction, consuming the staggering draugr and the shrieking, writhing vampire - Viarmo felt his heart leap in almost precisely the same way as when he saw a breathtaking sunset over the sea, or one of those pristine, majestic Skyrim landscapes. There was beauty in the fire, in its scorching breath, in its powerful, deadly force - and for a moment, he found himself mesmerized by that beauty... But only for a moment. The next thing that came into his mind was the memory of his mother, an Altmeri spellcaster with strong connections to the Thalmor government - a cruel smile playing on her lips as she showed her quiet, bookish daydreamer of a son how to sear the flesh off the bones of some poor goblin test subject. Viarmo bit into his lips and ordered himself to come to his senses. He was not like her. And not like that boy she kept bringing up as an example for him - what was his name, Ondo-something... He had run away from home to become a bard, to escape, once and for all, into a world so utterly different from his parents'... Yes, at times he sang of death and suffering - but this did not mean he enjoyed seeing it... At least, he thought so.   
  
When Viarmo tore himself away from the flame, a sudden realization shot through his mind. He knew that fire was especially harmful for the undead - any undead. Modryn was still down there. What if... He could have stopped to think for a while - after all, the ghost had no body that the bard could carry out of the blaze in his arms like the valiant fire fighters from adventure books. But he did not stop and think; instead, he brushed past the bewildered Karliah and raced down the stairs, right into the heart of the crimson-gold storm...  
  


  
Of all the possible heroic rescues, this had to be the most anticlimactic one. The flammable liquid on the floor had all burned out, and by the time Viarmo reached the bottom of the stairs, the blazing wall he was intent on braving had sizzled down to a pale flicker. The ghost - safe and sound, by the looks of him... as safe and sound as you can be after death, of course - greeted him with a mocking question,  
  
'Tried to pull me out of the flame, bard? Well, sorry to disappoint you, but being a hovering spectre makes dodging danger rather easy. I don't need help with that - and as it turns out, I am also not so entirely useless, am I?'  
  
Viarmo bowed his head down and said nothing, allowing Modryn to gloat in silence... which grew denser and denser, till he could almost breathe it - an unpleasant, stifling feeling, as if he were sinking into a bog. Thankfully, Karliah did not take too long to catch up with him, and the three resumed their journey down Potema's ancient halls.  
  


  
  
***

  
  
Dunriel began to shed her Vampire Lord form when she reached Solitude; in a cloud of dark smoke, she crept through the city gates. The sun was just about to rise, so she had to make haste - down the main thoroughfare and into the Temple of the Divines... She hissed faintly as she stepped on the hallowed stone - but the call ringing within her mind was too strong not to follow. She merged in one with the shadows and slid together with them across the Temple's floor as the first rays of daylight slanted through the windows. Now, to make her way into the Catacombs and to reach the Wolf Queen...  
  
  
***

  
  
The next large chamber that they entered, through a creaking iron gate and a curtain of hanging moss that stuck to the mortals' armour and hair, was half-submerged in water - dark and still as glass, its surface not broken by as much as a ripple. The cold that had unsettled them so much when they first entered the Catacombs was much stronger here, creeping from the water and eeling beneath their armour... Now Viarmo knew exactly how it felt - getting your bones chilled to the marrow.  
  
'Oh sweet Nocturnal, look at this,' Karliah whispered as she stood on tiptoe and peered through the water. Viarmo came up behind her - and, with a loud metallic clang, clapped his hand against his armoured chest.  
  
There were bodies below the smooth, dark, icy mirror of the water, dozens of them - frighteningly well-preserved, their white faces twisted in silent screams, their swollen, clammy limbs intertwined with one another like thick, fleshy roots of some monstrous plant...  
  
'We'd best not linger here,' Modryn said quietly. 'My non-existent gut tells me these are the kind of dead that have trouble staying dead'.  
  
Non-existent though it was, the ghost's gut was proved right soon enough. Viarmo had already drawn away from the water, but Karliah lingered a little - and just as she was going to take a step back, one of the corpses raised its arms, covered in a peeling layer of pallid, bubbling skin, and grabbed her by the hem of the hooded cloak she was wearing. With a short cry, the thief lost her balance and splashed into the water - to be sucked into a writhing ball of groping dead hands, which pushed her deeper and deeper down, her lilac eyes widening, large silvery bubbles escaping from her nostrils.  
  
Viarmo leapt in after her, with some sort of incoherent sound that might have been a battle cry or a scream of terror. The moment he landed into the water, he felt the corpses' arms twisting round his legs, hindering him, trying to drag him to his knees.  
  
'Come on, Viarmo,' he thought frantically to himself, raising his bound sword, 'Use the good old imagination... Don't think of these as dead bodies... Think of them as... seaweed. Yes, seaweed... Repulsive, but not frightening... Not in the least... You are cutting through seaweed...'  
  
He repeated the word again and again, to summon all the courage he had left, to fight back the nauseous spasms that clawed at his throat when he cut off some corpse's hand, to keep cleaving his way towards Karliah. Seaweed. This was just pesky seaweed.  
  
When he reached the thief and tore her, shivering, gasping for breath, out of the water, there was hardly a corpse left intact in his wake. To get back to firm ground, he had to wade through a mishmash of severed heads and limbs... All cut off from the bodies by the swift, violent strikes of his ghostly blade. Though the thought that he had done this, all of this, refused to register; his sword arm felt alien, detached, as if it had a mind of its own...  
  
Panting, dazed, he laid Karliah onto the floor and threw himself down at her side, feeling that he would not move even if Jarl Elisif herself came down and asked him, as a personal favour. Fortunately, the thief did not need him to revive her; she managed to sit up, coughing, and wheezed,  
  
'You... You make one impressive warrior poet, Vehk...'  
  
Modryn agreed with her - in his own way.  
  
'You are improving,' he said condescendingly. 'Though those swings could use some work'.  
  
Viarmo mumbled something in reply and waved his hand in the air, like a drowsy man does to chase off those who are trying to wake him up. Karliah got up and poked him teasingly.  
  
'Come on, no time for loitering! Don't you have a vampiric wife in urgent need of a cure?'  
  
Right yet again. So thoughtless, so selfish of him, giving in to weariness. Mentally begging Illa for forgiveness, Viarmo rose - and gave the thief a surprised look.  
  
'Shouldn't your armour be at least a little wet?'  
  
'It's enchanted,' Karliah said fondly, flipping her dark cape. 'Comes with bottomless pockets, too.'  
  
He smiled a faint, tick-like smile.  
  
'Illa had a bottomless backpack... Also enchanted. She would tell countless stories about it. She...'  
  
'Shh,' Karliah soothed him, sensing the pain in his voice. 'We are almost there'.

 

  
  
***

  
  
Dunriel squatted down on the floor, passing her fingers along the stone at the side of the pile of ash that had once been one of her undead brethren. Someone had struck that vampire down - not a fellow servant of Queen Potema, no... She could sense traces of living blood. This was the doing of a mortal. Perhaps several. Probably adventurers or treasure hunters; Dunriel usually spared that lot whenever possible,  feeling some strange affinity towards them. And even now, though they had killed one of her own kind, she felt no urge to hunt them down. For a short while.  
  
While she was getting to her feet, she heard the Wolf Queen's voice again. And now that she had entered her catacombs, this voice was even stronger, even more powerful, all-consuming, impossible to disobey...  
  
_'There are intruders walking through my halls, little one. They have gone further than I expected, and are beginning to get bothersome. Especially that High Elf that slew so many of my servants in the water chamber, just as they were awakening. Find him and his companions, and dispose of them. I have little patience for those that disrupt my work'._  
  
Dunriel's lips shaped into the words, 'Yes, mistress,' and she crossed her arms on her chest, welcoming the embrace of a new transformation.


	4. Let Me See Your Face

Viarmo sniffed loudly; he had made quite a dance on one spot, shaking first one boot, the another, but there still seemed to be some water left, slurping between his feet and the metal soles.  
  
'Did - did you see that room?' he asked in feverish agitation after his sudden coughing and sneezing fit had stopped. 'There were skeletons - in cages! What do you suppose the Wolf Queen was doing to them when they were still alive?'  
  
'Try not to think about it,' Kaliah said with a small reassuring smile.   
  
Viarmo shuddered and fell silent - but still kept glancing back at the chamber they had just left, at the draugr that the thief had felled with her arrows before they had fully awoken... and at the large, rusty, spiky cages hanging from the ceiling, with a bony figure curled up inside each, the thick layer of cobwebs making it seem that the skeletons still had their flesh on them. Viarmo was especially drawn to one particular victim of the Wolf Queen's cruelty; the smallest skeleton - a child, no older than twelve from the size of the bones. The bard's keen imagination had supplied the skeleton with a face; in his mind, it was a girl, looking rather like that poor child in Windhelm that he and Illa had often bought flowers from and fed during their courtship - when they bothered to crawl out of bed into the streets, that is. No matter how tight he screwed up his eyes, how violently he shook his head, Viarmo kept seeing the girl, with her thin, pale face, and hungry eyes peering from beneath dark, badly cut, zigzagging bangs, and tiny hands, all covered in raw red cracks from staying out in the cold... gripping at the bars of the cage...   
  
'Oh, great! We have hit a dead end!' Karliah exclaimed, peering at the seemingly solid stone wall ahead. 'Maybe I was wrong about the laboratory, after all. Maybe we should retrace our steps and start checking inside every urn and chest for a black soul gem...'  
  
'You thieves will use any excuse for looting, won't you?' Modryn grumbled, his ghostly eyebrows knitting in what Illa's grandmother had called his 'adorable scowl' (with a guttural, rolling, Ashland rrr in the word 'adorable', which always made his mouth water and his eyes grow dim).  
  
'I did not mean it that way!' Karliah protested. 'If I was so intent on looting, I wouldn't have cared about curing your granddaughter in the first place! Haven't you heard what they say about honour among thieves?'  
  
'Bloody nonsense,' the ghost scoffed, rolling up his eyes.  
  
By that time, Viarmo had already managed to get over the visions of the child in a cage.  
  
'Much as I like discussions on the question of morals,' he piped in, 'I... I think I can see a lever through Sera Oreyn'.  
  
Modryn moved over, rather reluctantly, his eyes fixed disapprovingly on Karliah, and, surely enough, the blurred greyish object that the bard had discerned through the ghost did turn out to be a lever. Karliah hurried to pull at it, her expression looking rather hurt; perhaps she still was offended by Modryn's distrust - or perhaps it wounded her roguish pride that it hadn't been her that spotted the lever first.  
  
The swift movement of Karliah's hand set in motion some ancient mechanism; with a soft grinding sound, the wall opposite the lever began to slide to the side and slightly upwards, revolving as if it was a part of some giant stone mill wheel. Viarmo gazed upon the moving wall with his eyes rounded and sparkling like a small boy's; he had never come across an account of any similar mechanisms in Nordic ruins, and the bard within him sung in delight. Karliah, on the other hand, watched the wall with an intent frown, her fingers still clasped round the lever. It soon became apparent that the revolving wall had a gateway carved into it, which gradually slid into view as the mechanism turned. When its bottom became precisely aligned with the passage's floor, Kaliah pulled at the lever - and the ancient machinery plunged into sleep again, leaving the way forward open. And the sight that unfolded before them brought a triumphant smile to Karliah's face and made Viarmo inhale deeply. The gateway led into a spacious, slightly rounded chamber, lit up by the sinister greenish glow of an alchemy apparatus, which had tables and shelves with dusty potion bottles, mouldy, dried up ingredients and very suspicious crooked instruments at its sides. They had found Queen Potema's laboratory.  
  


  
Almost knocking his companion off her feet, Viarmo charged past her through the gateway and tore his fingers into the cobwebs twisting round Potema's supplies, lifting the unsavoury alchemy reagents into the air, inspecting them and tossing them aside, his hands trembling like a Skooma addict's. Karliah joined him, though her search was much more steady and methodical. At times she had to dodge the flying odds and ends that Viarmo threw in all directions whenever he failed to find what he was looking for. Modryn, in turn, took it upon himself to oversee the process, hovering behind the investigators' backs and making a snide comment every now and again.

  
Minutes trickled by, and their search still remained fruitless. They discovered dried insects that crumbled to dust in their hands, and giant's toes with fungi round the nail - not a sign of sickness, but literal fungi, small pale mushrooms on thin quivering stalks (the two mortals could not keep from retching, but then Viarmo suggested imagining those were miniature Telvanni towers, making Modryn shriek in rage like one of those creatures some humans believe in, the banshee) - and skeevers' tails, and clippings of someone's hair, no doubt intended for some nefarious purpose, and animal intestines in jars, and a phial of what looked like blood, and a curved knife, along with a long hook, labelled 'For removing brains', and a whole bunch of other grizzly instruments, and poison recipes on withered parchment, and a few really random objects like dice and an ancient half-eaten cookie (Potema must have liked snacking during her work)... But no black soul gems.   
  
With each successive failure, Viarmo's face grew more and more drawn; he arched his eyebrows like a child in pain and dug through every next pile of alchemic junk with increasing vigour... Till finally, there came a moment when he tore himself away and swayed from side to side, covering his face with his hands.  
  
'Are you about to give up? Weakling,' Modryn spat. 'Typical High Elf. Can't fathom what my granddaughter ever saw in you. Though, of course, with her shameful, unspeakable promiscuity, everyone in pants is good enough...'  
  
'Stop!' Viarmo choked, glancing up, clenching his fists and breathing heavily.  
  
Modryn peered at him, eyes narrowed.  
  
'Ah, feeling angry? Good. Anger is a good way to stay alert and focused. I often found that recruits with potential achieve the most when they are insulted'.  
  
'That is so unprofessional,' Viarmo said weakly, rather at a loss at how to react to Modryn's way of being helpful.  
  
Surprisingly enough, the ghost did not argue. The bard did not have to know about the case where Modryn's educational strategy backfired... About a Dunmer girl with blazing red hair and eager eyes, an outcast Ashlander still overwhelmed by civilization... A girl who took her guild superior's constant reprimands so close to heart that it came dangerously close to breaking - not because she was weak; oh no, that little cliff-racerling could handle herself better than most... But because she had fallen in love with Serjo Oreyn, and every harsh word from him wounded her deeply. Thank the Three he had noticed this before it became too late... 

  
  
'Before you strangle one another - take a look at this baby,' Karliah stepped between the two men and held out an object, half-wrapped in a strip of linen, that looked sickeningly like a severed hand. Peeking through the fingers of that hand, which were clenched tightly, there was a tip of a dark crystal.  
  
'This is it,' Viarmo smiled, on the verge of bursting into happy tears. 'A black soul gem! Dear gods, we did it! Illa... Illa will be cured now!'  
  
'We have to make sure first,' Karliah remarked sensibly. With a business-like air, she laid the hand down at the side of Potema's apparatus and, picking up the brain hook, pried the dead fingers open. And exposed the gem, shaded a deep, velvety purple, with something black as night swirling in its centre. She grabbed it and jerked her hand back in a single lightning-like movement - which was wise, for the skeletal fingers almost instantly closed into a fist again.  
  
Viarmo burst into some wild, barely coherent song and swept Karliah into his arms... and then froze, sobering up after a sudden flash of thought.  
  
'We... We can't just leave,' he said slowly, letting go of the rather flabbergasted thief. 'The Wolf Queen is out and about again, raising the dead, speaking to us out of purple clouds... If we turn our backs on her and walk away, who knows what she may do to Solitude... to the whole province!'  
  
'If we go further in, we might encounter a force that is too much for us to tackle,' Karliah objected. 'What if you... die? That would be betraying Dragonling. She does not deserve to suffer all her remaining life just because the mer who held her fate in his hands recklessly decided to play hero. And besides, if you die, you will be, well... dead'.  
  
'I love Illa,' Viarmo said, his voice trembling slightly. 'I love her so much that my own passion frightens me sometimes. I would do anything to make sure she is cured. But this,' he passed his arms through the air in a circle, 'This is an ancient, dark force coming to life again, and I am in a position to try and stop it...'  
  
Karliah frowned, trying to read the bard's thoughts in the amber depths of his eyes. Were, by chance, his feelings similar to hers when she had to choose between avenging the man she loved and setting aside her grief and anger for the sake of her fellow thief?  
  
  
'All that comparing yourself to Vivec has gone to your head,' Modryn grumbled. 'You are no champion of Haafingar; at best, you can try and get Illari out of this mess without tripping over your own feet'.  
  
They would have stood this way and argued in a circle for hours - but just as the ghost finished speaking, the small esteemed company was joined by what had to be the most horrifying of Potema's pets.  
  


  
It stood over six feet tall, towering even over Viarmo - a massive grey bulk with webbed wings behind its back and long muscular arms ending in clawed hands. Its inky, whiteless eyes seemed tiny on a distorted, bat-like face, and as it drew closer to the three intruders, gliding a few inches above ground, they could see the bloodlust in its unblinking glare.  
  
For a few endless seconds, the creature took in the adventurers that stood, petrified, before it - and then, it raised its hand and tossed a glowing, blood-red orb in Karliah's direction. Her jaw tightening ever so slightly, the thief leapt aside and made a flash-like somersault. The orb missed its target, and the monster let out a frustrated hiss - and turned towards Viarmo, who stood with his legs wide apart and his bound blade on the ready, his eyes darting from the creature to the mark its spell had left on the wall and back again.  
  
Taking advantage of the foe being distracted, Karliah raised her bow and took aim. But just as she set her arrowtip right where she wanted, pointing at the side of the creature's head, into its void-like eye, Modryn rushed over to her and blocked her view with his half-transparent form.  
  
'Don't,' he said hoarsely, his ghostly face seeming little short of terrified, for some bizarre reason.  
  
All of this happened in a matter of seconds; in the meanwhile, Potema's pet wasted no time. Yet again, it raised its hand - but this time, instead of an orb, its grey palm sprouted greenish, ethereal tendrils that lashed through the air with a whip-like crack, and twisted themselves around Viarmo before he could as much as realize what was going on, and drew him towards the caster in an abrupt swoosh that made his heart leap into his mouth, as if he was racing in a carriage down a steep cliffside.  
  
He was now so close to the monster that their faces almost touched. He flinched at the scorching whiff of the creature's breath as it opened its mouth, revealing two rows of razor-sharp teeth, with the fangs being especially prominent, jutting out, dripping with hungry saliva...  
  
Clawed fingers tore off his helmet and, as it clanked down to the ground, sank into his hair and pulled at it, making him expose his neck. He closed his eyes, bracing himself for the pain - but even with his eyelids shut tight, he could still see the monster inside his mind... A twisted face, leaning down to him; fangs bared in a predatory leer.

  
  
 _'Yes, yes, little one!'_ the Wolf Queen's voice rang loud and triumphant, pulsing through every inch of Viarmo's body. _'Tear him apart! Drink him dry to the last drop! Feast on his flesh, in my honour!'_  
  
His hands growing deathly cold, Viarmo caught himself thinking that this voice was most likely going to be the last thing he would ever hear... But then, suddenly, it was followed by another, choking, urgent, and followed by a ghostly echo. Modryn's voice.  
  
'Child, stop! Remember who you are! Remember who he is! Time and time again, you told me you loved him - is that love dead now, just as your heart is? Listen to me! I said, listen to me, you brainless n'wah, or you'll regret this!'  
  
'What in Oblivion are you talking about?!' that was Karliah. 'And stop messing up my aim!'  
  
A short outcry from Modryn. The soft twang of the bowstring. The swoosh of the arrow.  
  
The monster let go of Viarmo, who flapped his arms ridiculously in the air to keep himself on his feet, and turned towards the thief, clawing at the mark on its shoulder. Modryn had done his best to prevent Karliah from firing a clear shot, so the arrow had merely grazed the creature's skin - but still, it was enough to enrage it. Folding its wings, it thudded to the ground - and strode to the thief, ready to sink its claws into her flesh.  
  
Once again forgetting to think, completely blinded by the wild rush of blood to his head, Viarmo pounced at the monster, trying to prevent it from reaching Karliah and Modryn. A foolish, foolish thing to do - but he could not stop himself. His fingers groped around the creature's hand - starting at the cold touch of the moonstone gauntlet, the grey bulk jerked its head and, once again, stared into his face. But this time, there seemed to be something different about its eyes; there was no hunger in them, no feral fury... their look was sentient - intent, doubtful, searching...  
  


  
The voice had told her to kill that mortal. The voice had soaked through her mind like dark fog, making her forget that she had a will of her own. But now... now its influence was growing weaker. She was not sure what had wakened her, the frantic cries of that ghost she thought she knew from somewhere, or the sting of the arrow shot by the dark-cloaked woman, who also seemed oddly familiar, or the touch of the wild-eyed Altmer in gilded armour... Whatever the cause, the fact remained: her mind was clearing, and, like an icily fresh mountain spring, there came rushing in a sudden realization. That Altmer that had dared to charge at her, to lay his hand upon the dreaded Vampire Lord - he was the one she kept seeing in her dreams. She was standing face to face with the vision that had haunted her for so long - only now it had acquired a physical form, so intoxicatingly tangible...

  
  
'Now look what you've done! Why didn't you let me kill the creature?!' Karliah cried out in desperation, lowering her bow and helplessly watching the bard and the monster disappear inside a swirling black cloud. 'I could've taken that thing down while it was staring at Viarmo! But no, you had to repeat your little trick and hover before my eyes and keep me from aiming at it!'  
  
'Aiming at _her,'_ Modryn corrected the thief quietly. 'It's a _she'._

  
  
He had to be dreaming... Or mad... Or ensnared by that creature's dark magic. This could not be real... could it? That hideous form melting away, like a huge cap of porous, dirty snow - and shaping itself into someone entirely different, someone his heart had longed for all this time... Well, even if it was not real, even if it was some elaborate trap - he did not care. There had been a time, not that long ago, when he would not have thought it possible - to hold his Illa in his arms again. To touch her, to feel her... His gaze never leaving her face, so pallid, so worn - and yet still hers - he tore off his gauntlets and, with renewed force, clasped her icy fingers in between his.

  
  
He had expected to feel afraid, revolted, just as he had been at the sight of other vampires in the Catacombs - but he did not. His heart did jolt a little when he saw Illa's face before him... But then, he was overwhelmed by reckless, boyish joy - and desire. So what if she had become one of those creatures of the night? He had found a cure; it was only a matter of time before she turned mortal again. And in the meanwhile, all he wanted to do was revel in having found her again. And also... He had heard stories of how vampirism made women more voluptuous, more seductive than they had been in life. And knowing the mortal Illa...  
  
  


  
She knew those fingers. She remembered their touch. Those fingers had clasped round her hand in the golden, honey-like light of the candles, under the tearful gaze of the statue of Mara - when a dark-skinned priest looked up from the goddess' scripture and asked,  
  
'Do you agree to be bound together, in love, now and forever?'  
  
Now and forever. Now and forever. She understood now. The Altmer from her visions, the gentle, passionate bard that had surrounded her with so much affection and warmth, that had tried so desperately to reach through the ice that imprisoned her - he was her husband. Lady Serana was right. She had something to go back to, after all. She had not always been Dunriel. Dunriel had been created by Lord Harkon - as a new tool that could help him fulfill that insane prophecy. And then, the Wolf Queen had tried to snatch that tool from him, to use it for her own purposes. Well, she would not be a tool for either of them.   
  
She had a destiny of her own, closely intertwined with that of this mer, this stunned, uncomprehending, but still undeniably handsome mer - that watched her transform in bedazzled silence, that grew sickly pale and then flushed with colour, apparently recognizing familiar features even through the ghastly vampiric prism... that smiled at her, slowly, like someone in a dream, and moved his hand to her waist, without saying a word, his eyelids fluttering down, his other hand gently tracing the outline of her face...  
  
If only she had the mortal ability to cry, tears of happiness would have gushed down her cheeks the moment he pressed his mouth against hers and she felt the dark vampiric passion swell up within her chest like the waves on a stormy sea. She placed her hands on the front of his cuirass and curled her fingers, just a little. A torrent of magic rushed from her heart, which was so close, so painfully close to beating again, to the very tips of her sharp fingernails - and a long broad crack ran along the middle of the metal chestpiece, making it break in two parts, which fell to the floor like egg shells, exposing the bard's heaving chest.  
  
'What have you done?' he asked in surprise, breaking the kiss. 'You have ruined your own gift!'  
  
'Story of my life,' she said, with a small laugh, caressing his gold-tinted skin. 'I... I didn't even know I could do stuff like that. I suppose I just got... carried away. Don't worry, I'll forge you a new one - how about glass? It will go wonderfully with your eyes. By the Blood, how I missed your eyes!'  
  
'I missed yours too,' he mouthed, his breath hot and intimate on her face. 'But I can't say I have anything against the change made in them by your...'  
  
Now, that was the subject she definitely did not want to be brought up at the moment. Later. Later, she would tell him all about how and why she had become a vampire. But for the time being, she did not want any questions, any hints, any reproaches. She wanted that moustached upper lip between hers, those bared arms weaving round her back, and those darned moonstone greaves off! Fortunately enough, that was when he stopped speaking.  
  
  
 _‘This is it’,_ she thought, as their tongues clashed, and their hands circled, and their bodies yearned. _‘Now and forever... well, perhaps with a few exceptions here and there’._  
  
  
  
Karliah bit into her lips, her aim a little unsteady. Why didn't that blasted fog clear? She couldn't just fire at random; what if she accidentally shot Viarmo? But then... what if she waited too long? What if the mist dissolved to reveal the bard lying lifeless on the floor, completely drained of blood, and the creature swaying over him drunkenly, smears of red darkening its jaws and the front of its chest?  
  
She had half a mind to release the string, trusting herself to luck - but before she could do it, the dark shroud finally lifted... To expose a sight that made Karliah - and most likely, Modryn as well - laugh and cry and curse all at the same time.  
  
Not seeming to mind the fact that he had been magically stripped of his cuirass, the good bard stood with his arms locked tight round an equally underdressed Dunmeri woman, whom, as soon as Viarmo tore his mouth free of hers and moved down to her neck, and her face came into view, Karliah immediately recognized as Dragonling. An unnaturally pale, gaunt, yellow-eyed Dragonling, but Dragonling nonetheless.  
  
'Have you no shame?! No shame at all?!' Modryn bellowed, circling round the reunited spouses and flapping his arms in a very convincing imitation of the Solitude windmill. 'You should be on your knees, apologizing for almost killing these two wimps - not having a tonsil duel with one of them!'  
  
'Oh shut it, Grandad,' Illa muttered. Soon after the recollection of her marriage, other memories of her mortal life had come flooding in, and felt so good, saying that short, curt phrase and knowing precisely what it meant.  
  
'Will someone explain what is going on here?' Karliah asked, reaching forward melodramatically.  
  
'To put it in the least long-and-boring way,' Illa replied with a smile, half-closing her eyes as Viarmo went on kissing her, 'I was in a bad place. For a long time.... And now, much as I'd love to hear what you three are doing in this lovely dungeon, it seems that I have a quest to do... You see,' she slipped out of the bard's embrace and groped on the floor for her grey leather armour, 'The Wolf Queen said we have a connection that formed when I tried to banish her. She used it to control me - and I figure, I can use it too, to defeat her. Because, even though some of my fellow vampires might disagree, a resurrected Potema is bad news. I'm gonna delve deeper into the Catacombs and kick some Wolf Queen butt'.  
  
'But what if she tries to enthrall you again?' Modryn interrupted hastily.  
  
Illa winked at him, looking almost like her good old mortal self.  
  
'That's why you three are coming with. Oh - and Karliah, could you perhaps lend Viarmo that fancy cloak of yours? I sorta broke his armour, and he is going to need something protecting him if he's to live up to the glory of the letter vehk'.


	5. Another Day, Another Flashback

Without as much as a twitch of an eyebrow, the inimitable Haskill slid aside, graceful as the Lord Jonibret of song - and let the priceless porcelain dish, decorated with the most exquisite floral patterns showing the typical plants of Mania and Dementia, smash against the wall over his head. As his lord's breakfast - cheese and allocasia jam, with just a faint sprinkle of babies' tears - trickled down the stone surface and a Golden Saint guard glanced haughtily around for a mortal that would clean up the mess, the Madgod's chamberlain reasoned that now was as good a time as any to rearrange his sock drawer (which was not at all a trivial task, since at times it pleased His Chaotic And Thoroughly Awesome Majesty to make the socks spring to life and try to bite off their owners' toes). Thus, he withdrew - a very wise tactical move indeed, for Lord Sheogorath was in one of those moods that turned the sky over his realm into a blood-red swirling funnel that would have made Mehrunes Dagon jealous.  
  
'This was not supposed to happen!' the Madgod shrieked, banging his fist on the feast table in frustration. 'I was supposed to be the one to clear that mortal's mind! Because I was the one that muddled it! With handfuls, shovelfuls of mud! I was the one that made her go berserk with bloodlust when she became one of Hircine's pets - we had a long talk about it, Prince to Prince, on that camping trip in his hunting grounds, and I proved it was me as much as him!.. Still have no idea why he had to break my nose... I was the one that hovered behind that vampire's back - ooh, he is quite a specimen himself; I just wanna run a pin through his heart and place him under glass... Oh, wait, vampires don't like it when you run things through their hearts. And old Molag would not like it either. Well, anyway, I was the one that helped the toothy fellow erase the mortal's memory and brainwash her! Ah, nothing like a washing line with brains hanging from it... I was the one that did the jig when old Potema tried to enthrall the little vamp! I had it all under control! And now, the insolent little neck-biter goes and gathers her wits without my permission! After I scattered them so nicely! She obviously didn't do it on her own - she had some help! But from who? Who from? From whom? Froom hom?' he plucked at his beard, thinking. 'Not Azura? That one would tie herself into knots to help her baby Dunmer! I still remember all that fuss over the Blight and the feisty girl with feathers and a strange brassiere. No, wait, that was a different Blight. This Blight involved What's-His-Name, Ne'er-Wear-A-Thing...'  
  
'Nerevarine,' said a stern, stiff voice inside Sheogorath's mind; all that remained of the Champion of Cyrodiil. 'And... Not that you will listen to me, but I think I know who aided my granddaughter. One of the Divines... Mara'.  
  
Sheogorath whirled to his feet, pushing the feast table over and making it zoom across the chamber and then soar up to the ceiling and remain glued there.  
  
'What?! Me, the Prince of Madness, bested by one of those boring old stiffs who aren't even supposed to meddle with our playground?! That's pure, vintage hogwash!'  
  
'I still think it was Mara,' the voice insisted. 'The love that my Illa feels towards Viarmo the bard did - unconditionally - what you agreed to do only after a round of painful negotiations. I believe in the power of this Divine - I have believed in it since meeting my husband'.  
  
'Interesting how you turned the conversation towards him,' the Madgod jeered. 'Because I am not letting your spirit fly off and be reunited with this paragon of modern art'.  
  
The voice faded into a weak, faltering whisper.  
  
'But... We had a deal... Illa gets cured of vampirism and you let me go...'  
  
'Well, the deal is off!' Sheogorath snapped sharply. 'She didn't need me to restore her sanity, did she? So you don't need to be free! Logic at its finest! Did you know that if you multiply two by three, you get a tallow candle?'  
  
'Didn't you say I bored you? Didn't you say you wanted to have this body all for yourself?' the voice was desperate now, almost tearful.  
  
The Prince jerked his shoulder vaguely.  
  
'Maybe I did say that. Maybe I said I like dancing in blooming meadows with pink fluffy yarn round my godly loins. Maybe I do like dancing like that. Or maybe I get dizzy after the first five minutes and ring for Haskill to bring me an ambrosia soda. So many maybes! I said, the deal is off. I am keeping you in my head. Yes, you are a frightful prudish nag - but if I torment you enough, you might earn your keep by amusing me. For example: care for me to show you a vision of your son's death? You know, that very son you abandoned as a child to explore the Isles? Or better, let me make you recollect how your precious Modryn had his throat slit by one of Malacath's boys! After you swore you'd always be there for him, too!'  
  
He cocked his head to one side, a dreamy smile playing on his lips, listening to the voice turn into a groan of agony, audible only to the spirit's insane host.  
  
'You know what adds spice to torturing you lot...' the Madgod added after a while, his eyes flashing with a dark, predatory hunger. 'Giving you a flicker of hope. So let's say I make a new deal. Forget about your grandkid; I no longer consider her worthy of my attention. Consorting with the Divines has officially made her as square as Jyggalag. She won't be getting anything from me from now on, not even a spurt of water from a button hole. No, this deal is going to be all about you. I will set you free - when two Sundases meet. And that's my final offer - this one I will most certainly stick to'.  
  
The spirit remained silent; after centuries of sharing a body with the Prince of Madness, it barely had enough strength to weep.

  
  
***

  
  
'So... Do you actually... drink blood?' Viarmo asked quietly as he walked in front of Karliah and Modryn, down a new passage that they had discovered beyond a large door of half-rotted wood at the far end of Potema's laboratory. His fingers were chained with Illa's; her hand was icy cold, and he could only hope that his touch warmed it at least a little. He had forgotten the last time they walked like this, hand in hand; feeling her touch returned him to the bygone days when he was courting her in Windhelm, so boyishly, blindly besotted - and to their honeymoon in Solitude, before the breakup, before the hunt across the wilderness, before Illa's vampirism... It took him great effort to drag himself back to the present and remind himself that his wife had... changed.  
  
She smiled. An odd, hungry smile that made Viarmo start involuntarily.  
  
'I do. Not as often as some, but still. It is a necessity, as well as good sport. I never prey on peasants. Drinking the blood of weak, unarmed men and women curled up under the blankets in their farmholds? There is no fun in that. Now, give me a fort full of bandits, and I will slide inside with the shadows and then slide back out again, with my belly full of outlaw blood, and no one being the wiser'.  
  
'Still after the adrenaline, I see,' Karliah remarked as she caught up with Viarmo and Illa.  
  
'Still pretending that you stand by the weak and the poor merely by coincidence,' the bard continued the thought, stopping to kiss his wife on the forehead.  
  
'Still not focusing on your mission to defeat Potema,' Modryn grumbled huskily under his breath.  
  
There was some truth in his bitter words; for a short while, Viarmo and Illa were so preoccupied with gazing into each other's eyes that they failed to notice a row of three levers in front of them.  
  
It was Karliah that brought them back to their senses - not without a surge of malicious pleasure. Every tender glance, every meaningful touch, every stealthy kiss that the two exchanged was a painful reminder of all the glances and touches and kisses that she herself had received once and would never receive again. She prayed to the Mistress of Shadows to spread the dark raven wings over her heart and cool the flame within it - for she feared that if her friend and her husband kept playing youngsters on a honeymoon, she would do something she would later regret.  
  
'Come on now, snap out of it,' she said curtly, giving a small tug at her dark hooded cloak that was now wrapped round Viarmo's shoulders. 'We have another puzzle ahead of us'.  
  
Viarmo laughed sheepishly and looked away from Illa - and as he did, his eyes widened, his pupils dilated in alarm, and his fingers made a gripping movement, which seemed to be becoming habitual - summoning the ghostly blade. There was a vampire advancing at them, out of a small side room none of them had noticed before.  
  
Illa measured the creature up as it drew closer, her yellow eyes narrowing - and her darkened cleft lips curled in disgust. That twisted face, with few traces left to identify race or gender, that wild stare, those shabby, blood-smeared robes... A feral vampire; little more than an animal, allowing itself to be controlled by the Wolf Queen. This was what she had been when she was a werewolf; this was what she would have become as a vampire, too, if Viarmo had not interfered.  
  
The creature let out an angry hiss,  
  
'This is _my_ hunting ground!'  
  
Illa smirked; last time this same phrase had been said to her by Haelga in Riften.  
  
'Has your wolfie momma never taught you that sharing is caring?' she asked silkily, casually tossing a sizeable chunk of magical ice at her fellow nightwalker.  
  
The bluish, glowing shard shattered before it could reach its target - reaching forward with its gnarled, clawed hands, the vampire cast a transparent shield in front of itself; though shimmering like the air round a red-hot forge, this magic ward emanated a breath of cold, which strengthened in a piercing surge when Illa's ice spike hit the shield and exploded into a cloud of diamond dust. Leering in triumph, the vampire lit the now familiar orb of red light in its fist - but just as it straightened its fingers, hitting Karliah square in the chest with a swirling, crippling red beam that made the thief bend in two with pain, Viarmo rushed forward and brought his bound sword down with a sharp swoosh.  
  
The blade whizzed through the air in a dazzling purple blur, and in less time that it took for Viarmo's heart to soar to his throat and come crushing down again, its flame ate through the dead flesh and sinews, and devoured the bone beneath. The yellow fire in the vampire's eyes flashed for one last time and then faded away, leaving nothing but a milky-white, blank film; the predatory jaws snapped together, cutting off the tip of the creature's long dark tongue; and the head, with its pallid skin that seemed to glow in the surrounding murk, and a beast-like mane of hair... the head rolled down on the floor, cut off by the swift, precise strike of Viarmo's sword.  
  
The decapitated body sank limply to its knees; the bard mimicked this movement, with hardly more colour in his face than the severed head. He stared dully at the palm of his trembling hand that had but moments ago held the ghostly sword; his whole body was shaking as if in a fever, and his eyes were welling up with tears. Fighting as such was still new to him, but cutting off someone's head... He would have screamed, but his throat was parched, and his lips were glued together; the sound, finding no escape, tore its way up and down his throat in a burning lump.  
  
'It's okay, love, it's okay,' Illa cooed, squatting next to him and passing her hands up and down his forearms. 'I know how it must feel... I freaked out after my first decapitation, too. It will pass; trust me. Listen to my voice, sweetness... Let all the world fade away except the sound of my voice...'  
  
The yellow light in her eyes turned to green; she kept caressing Viarmo's arms, her intent gaze never leaving his mask-like, horrorstruck face, her drawling half-whisper flowing like thick, dark treacle,  
  
'You have been brave, my bard. So very brave. You know that. Your heart beats steady and calm, your mind is clear and focused, you are ready for any danger ahead. You do not let anything diminish your courage. You stand proud and strong, and make your foes cower at your feet. My warrior poet. My darling Vehk...'  
  
The deep, twisted lines on Viarmo's face cleared; his eyes lost their glassy look, and the corners of his lips slid upwards. Illa, now on her knees next to him, wove her arms round his shoulders, which were no longer twitching, and gave him a long, gentle kiss, which he returned with a fierce passion that meant that Illa's little speech must have worked.  
  
  
Karliah felt blood rushing away from her hands and feet. This was it; the moment she was dreading had come sooner than expected.  
  
'Cut it out,' she spat, her voice metallically hard. Modryn glanced at her curiously, half-approving, half-alarmed.  
  
Illa looked up, eyebrows arched.  
  
'What's wrong with calming down my shell-shocked husband? That's how we vampires roll. Hypnotic persuasion'.  
  
'I was hoping for this to be a normal dungeon crawl,' Karliah said breathlessly. Somewhere at the back of her mind, a voice screamed for her to stop, but the pain of her reopened wound was stronger than any call of reason. 'Finding a cure for you, foiling Potema's plan. But instead, all I get to do is watch you two lick one another like Khajiit on Skooma!'  
  
Illa opened her mouth to make a dirty joke about Karliah being welcome to join them - but checked herself, understanding dawning on her.  
  
'It's... It's about Gallus, isn't it?' she asked quietly and earnestly, getting to her feet and gesturing to Viarmo to do the same. 'It hurts you to see us kissing because you remember yourself and Gallus?.. Look, I'm really sorry about that... It's just that... I haven't seen Viarmo here for months, and while we were separated, I did not even remember who he was most of the time. So now it's like falling in love with him all over again. I can't help myself...'  
  
'Of course you can't help yourself,' Karliah said, her voice dripping with venom. 'You follow our kin's reputation to the letter. We are in the middle of a quest here, and all you can think about is... too indecent to mention in front of an ancestor spirit!'  
  
Modryn nodded meaningfully in the background.  
  
'It's not true!' Illa protested; thank Molag Bal vampires cannot blush. 'I said I was sorry!'  
  
'Apologies are not going to change how I feel', Karliah said hoarsely.  
  
Viarmo tried to cut in, taking each woman by the hand.  
  
'Please, Karliah... Remember what you told me when you joined me. Your pain made you compassionate, not bitter'.  
  
Karliah chewed her lower lip, inhaling deeply. What was she supposed to reply - that she had no objections against seeing others suffer as she had suffered, but did not abide them being happy?  
  
'I don't have to remember anything,' she said, internally terrified by the iciness of her own voice. 'I am done here'.  
  
Before any of her companions could process what was going on, she tore her cloak off Viarmo's shoulders and stormed off, a few raindrops short of a raven-black thunder cloud.  
  
  
Illa passed her fingers through her hair and coughed awkwardly.  
  
'Well, I guess I'll be handling two of these three levers,' she said, turning back to the puzzle they had been distracted from. 'Vivi, take the remaining one. And Grandad - please no comments, or I will toss something at you. Yes, I know it will go right through you, but it's the thought that counts, right?'  
  
  
The levers turned out to activate a mechanism similar to that which granted the adventuring team access to Potema's laboratory. Only this time, there were three doors rotating all at the same time, each one seeming to go faster than the next. Viarmo pulled his lever, which was the furthest from the doors and controlled the first one, with relative success; the gate did not align properly with the floor, freezing in a rather lop-sided position, but there was still enough space to squeeze through. Illa, on the other hand, had to fuss longer, dashing from one of her two levers to another, missing the right moment and then starting all over again, tripping over the levers and resetting the mechanism just as the gate was getting so very, very close to the correct position... This made her frustrated, and when Viarmo tried to offer his help, she snapped at him like a feral beast, so he had to back off. This task really needed a third set of hands - but Modryn's were no use, safe for being crossed on his see-through chest in silent contempt, and Karliah... Viarmo did not even dare apply the common plot trope and tell himself that she would likely soon cool off and come back.  
  
Finally, the mechanism was conquered, and the bard and his wife entered the next section of the catacombs, the ghost hovering over their heads. Even though Karliah could not see them now, they both avoided taking each other by the hand, no matter how conveniently the opportunity presented itself.  
  
'Viarmo...' Illa said after a while; she wanted to call him 'love', but swallowed that word with a small, uncomfortable gulp. 'Can you... can you cast destruction spells, too?'  
  
'I think I can,' he replied hesitantly, recalling the unfortunate incident in the Temple of Mara when he learned that Illa had been unfaithful to him, and two priests had to hold him down to stop him from setting the building on fire. 'Mostly when I'm angry... But I suppose if I focus... Why?'  
  
Illa pointed at the two small pillars at the end of the narrow, misty corridor they had entered. Each of them had a large, elongated crystal on top, glowing a faint, slightly pulsing red.  
  
'This here is a typical ancient Nordic trap,' Viarmo couldn't help but smile as Illa was obviously mimicking his manner of talking to students. 'If we come any closer, these things are gonna shoot magic at us - fire, most likely. Our best bet is to knock them over before they're activated. A couple of arrows would be a quick, clean way to do it - but I don't have bow on me and, well...' she cast her eyes down and fell silent for a few moments, but then jerked her head up and went on, her voice deliberately loud and fast, 'We need to use a spell. Destruction, preferably, because telekinesis is too slow and might set off the trap. Shock is no good, ice will probably melt when it reaches the pillars, but a good flame blast will work. I can't cast it, though. Believe me, I've tried. Couldn't get as much as a flicker out of my fingers. Probably has something to do with Volkihar blood... So it would be awfully sweet of you if you knocked those bad boys over with a fireball or something'.  
  
Viarmo nodded.  
  
'I... I will do my best'.  
  
'Thank you,' Illa said, smiling. She drew back to clear Viarmo's view, and as her hand brushed against his, made a faint clasping movement with her fingers - but yet again, she jerked them away, clenching them into a fist, her nails digging deep into her palm.  
  
Viarmo stared unblinkingly at the enchanted pillars, his eyes stinging a little with concentration, his nostrils flaring, beads of perspiration rolling down the slope of his forehead. He could feel Illa and her grandfather watching him - one hopefully, encouragingly (if a little distracted by the sight on his tense back muscles), the other with almost tangible skepticism.  
  
'Come on, magic,' he mouthed, raising his cupped fingers to his chest. 'Come on...'  
  
But minutes went by - he could swear he heard the slug-like squelch they made as they crawled past him - and the flames still refused to light up in his hand, and the pillars still shimmered ahead, as if mocking him. Finally, reasoning that the subdued power within him was almost always wakened by some emotional thought or memory, Viarmo decided to delve into the back recesses of his mind and search for something that might coax the stubborn magic to burst through. Soon enough, he found it - the very reason why he had spent years and years suppressing his kin's natural spellcasting ability within himself; why he had chased the magic so deep, deep down that now it deigned to show itself only on rare occasions.

  
  
_He is twelve years old, and his mother is standing in the nursery doorway, tall and slender in her dark battlemage robes; her long light-brown hair, which in the mornings is as wild and unkempt as her son's, has been oiled and combed back, leaving her thin, angular, gold-skinned face completely open, so cold, so haughty... She casts a long shadow across the floor, and the boy gulps uncomfortably when it creeps towards his feet._  
  
_'What are you doing?' she asks sharply as she comes closer and her fierce, bright-green eyes glide over the ink spots on the child's hand. He starts and hurries to crumple the slip of paper on which he has been scribbling. Mother does not approve of him making up stories; she calls it a waste of time._  
  
_'N-nothing...'_  
  
_'Good. Then you can come and practice your magic with me'._  
  
_She flicks her hand through the air, and the boy's chair whizzes away from beneath him. He plops awkwardly to the floor and scrambles to his feet, his heart fluttering. His mother's lips twitch in a smug half-smile, and she whirls round to leave the room, without a single backwards glance, confident that he will follow her. And follow her he does, down a narrow, crammed stairway locked between walls that seem to be dangerously close to pressing together and squishing his poor little self, and into the dungeon where his mother often withdraws to conduct her magical experiments._  
  
_The air is damp and chilly, and he feels the dewdrops of apprehension creep down his spine. He whimpers a little, but his mother pays no heed to him. She strides across the dungeon to the row of cells where she keeps her test subjects. This time, only one of them is occupied. Curled up on a dirty, rank straw pile, there is a small greenish creature with a bulbous, oversized head and long stick-like arms. A goblin. Many Altmer hunt them and tame them, turning them into servants, guard dogs or, in Viarmo's mother's case, living spell targets._  
  
_She flings the cell door open flashes a lightning bolt at the goblin's feet; there is a whiff on an unpleasant smell as the magic singes its flesh. With a loud shriek, the creature wakes up and leaps to its feet. When it draws itself up to its full height, Viarmo feels his heart sink. He has seen a few goblins before, but they were much bigger, with harder, fiercer features, smaller eyes and longer fangs; this one has to be a cub... A child; maybe even his age. His fingertips icy cold, his tongue glued to the roof of his mouth, he watches his mother paralyze the goblin and move its stiff body to a better lit section of the room, prop it up against the wall as if it were a practice dummy, and draw curved lines and circles on its body with a bit of charcoal - controlling it remotely, of course, for her gloves are too superiorly crafted to be soiled._  
  
_'See? I have taken the effort of making this amusing for you,' she says, beckoning Viarmo to step on the line she has drawn on the floor opposite the goblin. 'I will award you points for each section you hit with your spell. The closer to the heart and other vital organs, the more points you get. Now, on the count of three...'_  
  
_'No!' the boy screams, his widened eyes fixed on the goblin's thin, half-starved little face. 'No! I won't!'_  
  
_'What do you mean you won't?' she breathes, looming over him. 'I am your birth-giver; as such, I have direct authority over you. You have no right to disobey me!'_  
  
_He glances from his mother's livid face to the lines on the goblin's shallow belly and back again._  
  
_'No,' he repeats, swallowing scorching, obstinate tears. 'Not doing it'._  
  
_She grabs him by the wrist, boring into his palm with her acid-shaded eyes, as if summoning the burst of magical flames._  
  
_'Cast that spell or you are grounded for a month!' she chokes, her vice-like fingers almost completely cutting off the flow of blood to his hand._  
  
_'Fine,' he says, his mouth twitching slightly. 'I need time to finish that story anyways'._  
  
_'Oh, is that so?' she breathes heavily and relaxes her grip - but not before shooting a punishing shock bolt through her son's body. As he sinks to the floor, writhing in pain, she gives him a small disgusted kick. 'You are pathetic... Pathetic, you hear me?! The Aldmeri language is too pure to create a word for what you are doing!'_

  
  
'What I was doing was making a choice, Mother. A choice to live my life my way, not yours. By becoming a bard. And finding other uses for magic than torturing goblins. I wonder how many points you would give me for this?'  
  
The fireball bloomed in Viarmo's hand like one of those deadly beautiful man-eating flowers in the jungle of Valenwood. Slowly, very slowly, nursing the flaming blossom between his fingers, he drew his arm all the way back - and then swung it forward, letting the magic break loose.  
  
The spell exploded on the floor between the two pillars, making the crystals fall out of their sockets. As they sunk into the golden tempest that still raged down below, the dancing flame licking the ancient stones, they, too, released their magic charge, shooting blinding fireworks in all directions. And in the dazzling light of the three combined fire spells, Illa forgot all about the guilt she had started feeling after Karliah made a scene, and clung on to her husband in a tight embrace, and petted his hair, and whispered,  
  
'I am so proud of you, my sweet Vehk...'  
  
Modryn let out a disapproving 'Hrmph'.  
  
'With all due respect for your newly found magical ability, the ruckus you raised must have woken all the remaining dead in this place'.  
  
The thundering noise of the triple explosion was certainly loud enough; it remained to be seen about all the remaining dead - but one vampire did seem to awaken, along with his draugr servant.  
  
They greeted the three adventurers on the threshold of the room behind the pillars. The vampire - a male Nord in long-sleeved black robes, bent in two in a mocking bow and said, passing his tongue over his bloated lips,  
  
'You have come far. No doubt you seek to enter Potema's sanctum. My pet and I can see to that. You see, we'll need plenty of fresh corpses to help rebuild our Queen's army'.


	6. So Many Distractions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 'beefy fellow' that Viarmo mentions is a character that belongs to a friend of mine and who Illa had a brief affair with in our roleplay art.

It was a bit of a shock, to realize that she had a small, hard, icy-cold crystal still tucked away into her armour; consumed as she was by burning, stinging bitterness, she had completely forgotten about it. The gem... The black soul gem. Which she had discovered in Potema's laboratory, and kept on her person throughout the entire argument with Illa, and carried off with her when she left.   
  
She stared at it blankly for a while - a faint flicker of deep, rich purple pulsing against the smooth black leather of her glove. The light and darkness within the gem shifted, and twisted together, and drew apart again - mesmerizing like the lapping of the waves against an ocean shore, like the quivering dance of a flame... Karliah's eyes grew dim and unfocused, as the swirls within the soul gem called to life a half-distant memory...   
  
A memory of rising water filling an enormous underground cavern, small waves dancing like a dog trying to win his master's favour, at the side of a giant bronze statue, with a serene, impenetrable face and empty eyes. A memory of herself struggling to tear herself free, her cloak caught in between the colossus' fingers, her feet dangling helplessly in the wet emptiness... of herself watching in horror as the water crept higher and higher, licking her chest, her neck, her chin. A memory of a shimmering, oppressive roof building up over her head, cutting off the light and the air, growing thicker and thicker by the second. A memory of wild pain within her lungs, which were straining to keep the last, faltering spark of life inside her body from fading away. A memory of a sudden white flash before her eyes that blinded her as all her senses gradually began to die, and then wove into the familiar figure... Gallus. Waiting. Beckoning for her to join him.   
  
And a memory of a dark arm, wiry and strong, closing in round her, while the fingers of a grey-skinned hand were fumbling with the fastenings of her cloak. A memory of someone pulling her upwards, never letting go of her - unseen, but inspiring confidence... contentment even. Like her mother, who, during their long training sessions in the art of stealth, always caught her when she fell. Like Gallus, who would hold her close and fill her heart with light when they were braving the darkest of shadows. A memory of the deafeningly loud, scream-like gasp she made when she surfaced, her head bobbing up and down inches away from the ceiling. A memory of a face, appearing a little blurred round the edges through the drops of water on her eyelashes; grinning at her from the greenish murk of the cavern. A memory of crimson eyes sparkling through the coppers bars of wet bangs. A memory of a husky voice, calling out to her,  
  
'Well, that was a close call! Come on; I have found a way out of here. Bryn has already pushed through - by Azura, I will skin him for not staying behind for you!'  
  
Staying behind for her... Karliah shook her head, shutting and opening her eyes like someone struggling to keep awake, and closed her fingers firmly round the soul gem.  
  
'Oh, Dragonling... I have been such a fool...'

  
  
***  
  


  
'That fellow of yours...' Viarmo said, wincing, as he knelt down on the floor, his chest heaving and sweating, and Illa healed the mark left in his bare shoulder by the vampire's ice spike with one hand while casting a protective ward in front of the two of them with the other, 'The obnoxious, beefy one... How does he dance into battle with barely a shred of clothing on him, and not get as much as a single scratch?'  
  
'Obnoxious? Beefy? You aren't still jealous of him, are you?' Illa asked, with a slight twitch of an eyebrow, somehow managing to keep her concentration - which was quite fortunate, for the guardian of Potema's Sanctum insisted on showering her and Viarmo with ice spikes.   
  
The ghostly blue shards shattered against the ward, one after the other, till finally there came a moment when the vampire hissed in frustration and lowered his hands, out of magical energy. Illa soon followed suit; the dark-purple veins on her cheeks and temples had grown more prominent, running like deep cracks along her pallid face. Healing Viarmo and shielding him from harmful magic had evidently taken quite a bit of effort, and she welcomed a chance to catch her breath - metaphorically speaking, of course, for breathing is not really a Volkihar thing.  
  
She straightened herself up slowly; Viarmo, too, got to his feet, jerking his healed shoulder. While her eyes were still fixed on her adversary, and her body was tense like that of a predator on the hunt, Illa returned to the subject of the 'obnoxious beefy fellow' in such a casual tone that she and her husband might as well have been sitting at the fireside back home,  
  
'I told you, Vi, we are just friends. I have nothing but respect for the man, and I hope he has nothing but respect for me. True, there was this one time - but I was after his loot... At least, that's what my stirred up memory tells me...'  
  
'Stop turning this into a Sload soap opera!' Modryn cut in, gesturing urgently. 'There's a draugr right behind you!'  
  
And indeed, while the black- robed assaulter was busy replenishing his magicka, his 'pet' - a tall, slightly hunching specimen with remnants of chainmail clinging on to its chest and bulky horned construct crowning its head - decided to take a few axe swings at the turncoat vampiress and her husband. With almost lightning-like speed, which turned her into a dark-grey blur, Illa leapt aside, dragging Viarmo after her by the hand. The bulky weapon lodged into a gap between two stone slabs, making a head-splitting grinding sound. The draugr tugged at the axe handle helplessly, its bony legs wide apart, the rear end of its stringy, dried-up body sticking high up into the air. Illa watched it struggle for a moment, her fangs half-bared in a smirk; and then, glanced at Viarmo over her shoulder, her narrowed eyes glinting meaningfully. He smiled. He understood.  
  
This time, it took his fingers a mere second to erupt into flames. Like a beast of the wilds springing up on its victim, the fire bolt rushed through the air and sank its claws into the draugr's throat, tearing at its pallid flesh, devouring it, turning it into a hard, brittle black crust. Just as when Karliah had used the oil pool and the ceramic lamp to set a vampire aflame, Viarmo gazed at his handiwork with glassy eyes and dilated pupils, torn between shock at his newly discovered ability to cast spells, fear that he was becoming like his sadistic battlemage mother - and joyful pride. He was gradually getting the hang of this fighting stuff. He was smiting undead with the power of sword and sorcery. He was becoming a true warrior poet. He was living up to his nickname...  
  
Viarmo's daydreams of glory were shattered when the half-charred draugr finally let go of its axe, leaving it stuck in the floor, staggered about a little and, regaining its balance, let out an echoing shriek, then another, and another still. Three words in the ancient Dragon tongue. Viarmo had heard them before when, coming to his and Melaran's aid from a dusky alley in Solitude, Illa saved them from a dragon. Only this time, he was the one targeted by the Shout.  
  
'Fo! Krah! Diin!'  
  
The stone beneath his feet suddenly disappeared under a fine glowing rimy crust, which crept, like a wave of icy tide, from the draugr to the petrified bard - and then, up his body, making his legs lose feeling, piercing his stomach and reaching towards his heart.   
  
The vampire, seeing one of the intruders immobilized, licked his lips hungrily. Illa and Modryn saw the flicker of his tongue and rushed to block his way (though it was not quite clear what good the ghost could do) - but just as they made their move, the black-robed figure dissolved into a small cloud of mist and reappeared, a fraction of a second later, at Viarmo's side, tearing his long nails into the bard's flesh and sinking his teeth into his neck with a squelch that almost made Illa sick... even though sickness is not a very Volkihar thing either.  
  
'Don't just stand there like one of those ridiculous new-fangled birthsign stones!' Modryn boomed into her ear. 'Save him!'  
  
  
And to think... To think that she actually found it enjoyable... Oh, she did, even though she tried to spare the innocents. Passing her fingers along her victim's neck, revelling in the frenzied rhythm of blood pulsing beneath the thin protective layer of skin - almost humming to it. And then, leaning down and piercing the tender mortal flesh with her fangs, reaching the vein and making a small, animal-like grunt of pleasure as hot, tingling, delicious blood filled up her mouth... To think that she loved that feeling of feasting on cattle, no less than the other, more savage vampires. To think she had recently tried to do the same thing to her poor, sweet Viarmo... By Lord Bal, those preachy Vigilant characters were right. Her kind were monsters. She was a monster.  
  
She did not know how (maybe all those soppy love stories had a kernel of truth in them, and they did share some sort of special connection), but she seemed to be feeling Viarmo's pain. Literally. As the vampire gorged himself on her husband's blood, her neck burned in agony, and her vision darkened, and a silent scream scraped against the inside of her chest. Every crimson droplet of life seeping out of her precious bard was like a tiny ruby-bladed dagger, plunging deep into her dead heart. It took her a while to shake off this feeling of terror and disgust and wounding guilt... and before she finally charged at the vampire, her palms glowing purple with shock magic, she made a mental vow to herself that she would never, ever, not even if it drove her mad - never feed again.  
  
  
The vampire was too busy feeding to notice that Illa had leapt over him. He had let Viarmo go, making him thud to the floor in a very convincing, and very frightening, impression of a flour sack, and now stood over him, swaying slightly. Dazed by the inebriating flow of living blood through his body, he registered Illa's presence only when she put her arms round him from behind, gently, as if caressing a lover. Her touch made him smile, slowly, drunkenly - she had always had this effect on most men, both  as a mortal, and even more so after being turned and receiving the gift of vampiric seduction. He did not grasp her intentions until the very last moment, when she pressed her palms against his chest and released the lightning bolt. But the dreamy smile still remained on his lips, even as he crumbled away into a pile of smoking ash at her feet.  
  
  
Viarmo's face was completely drained of blood, ashen-pale, with bruised circles underneath his eyes; and the bite mark on his neck was swollen and hot to the touch. After inspecting the wound Illa froze, deep in thought, and even the frantic ghostly wails of Modryn (who was trying to draw her attention to the draugr, still stirring somewhere in the background) did not break her reverie.  
  
The signs were unmistakable: Viarmo had contracted Sanguinare Vampiris. For the next few days, he would be plunged into a feverish, drowsy state, his strength waning more and more with every sunrise; and by the end of the third day, he would sink in deep, death-like sleep, from which he would awaken as a vampire... like herself.  
  
Dipping the tip of her finger into the blood that was still oozing from Viarmo's wound, Illa slowly drew a vertical line across his lips and the tip of his nose, mimicking her own bat's cleft, and tried to imagine her darling Vehk as a creature of the night, with long bared fangs and yellow eyes burning with feral hunger.   
  
If she left him like this... if she did nothing, and just sat and waited at his side, watching all that was mortal in him fade away - she and Viarmo would become one. The dark gift of Molag Bal would unite them for all eternity, and they would walk side by side in the cold light of the twin moons, always, always together...  
  
No. Illa jerked her head upwards, shuddering - feeling the same jolt of disgust that had pierced her when she watched the other vampire feed on her husband. No. This would not be the Viarmo she had met and seduced in Windhelm, not the Viarmo she had married, not the Viarmo she had fallen in love with. Her Viarmo had warm, living eyes and skin the colour of sunlight. Her Viarmo was the child of clear blue skies and birdsong. She would not have the darkness taint him.  
  
Before storming off, Karliah had mentioned something about finding a cure for Illa's vampirism. She doubted that such a thing existed - but if it did not, she would rather part with Viarmo again than take him down the dark path she was treading. She remembered now that it had always been the same old story: Viarmo was too good for her. Too pure. And she would do anything to protect that purity.  
  
She reached towards the purplish-grey pile of cold embers that had once been Viarmo's attacker, scooped up a handful of soft, flaking ash, and began to rub it into the bite marks on the bard's neck, muttering a healing incantation. Slowly, steadily, the magic did its work; the bloated redness of the skin round the puncture marks ebbed away, and some of the colour returned to Viarmo's cheeks. His chest rose, wave-like, and then fell again; Illa watched him with her face strangely hardened, twisted - if she could, she would have burst into tears, but, no, crying is not a Volkihar thing; not a Volkihar thing at all.  
  
While his granddaughter was pulling her husband out of the icy clutches of disease, the worthy Ancestor Guardian was hovering restlessly from side to side and calling out to her in his hoarse, echoing, ghostly voice - still desperately trying to make her turn around and to deal with the pulverized vampire's pet. Soon after the exhausting Shout, the draugr seemed to have gone into a temporary doze, swaying on its charred legs - but now it had started doing its shambling corpse routine again, advancing at Illa and Viarmo in tiny, shuffling steps, its arms stretched forward and hands clawing at thin air.   
  
Eventually, it drew so close to Illa that she would have surely been able to hear the wheezing noises the creature made - but just as the vampire had been too busy draining the bard's life, she was now too busy returning it. The boundaries of her world began and ended with Viarmo; nothing mattered except for him breathing in and out, and opening his eyes, and smiling at her... The draugr bent forward, straining its withered sinews, and attempted to close its fingers round Illa's throat - but then, gurgled loudly and fell backwards, a black arrow sticking out of its throat.  
  
'Really? How much does it take you two to stop falling into each other's eyes?'  
  
Illa looked up with a start - and laughed a short, relieved laugh. Karliah was back - and this time, there was nothing in her voice but good-natured, friendly mockery.  
  
'By the shadows, looks like our Vehk has taken quite a batter here!' the thief went on, giving the scene a closer look. And then set to fumbling through the invisible pockets of her armour with a loud cacophony of clanking, 'He might need a potion or two... I ran out of mine - so I, uh, looted Potema's laboratory on the way out of here'.  
  
'Force of habit, eh?' Illa asked with a grin, catching the phial Karliah tossed her.  
  
The two women laughed; and, still lying on the floor, rather weakened by the vampire's bite but not missing a detail of what was going on round him, Viarmo thought to himself that the plot trope had proved true after all.

  
  
***

  
  
'Why won't you listen to me? Maybe that vampire you turned to ash had a key! Maybe it is still intact out there somewhere! But no, you have to go ahead and stubbornly try to pick that lock!'  
  
Karliah gave Modryn an exasperated look and pressed her finger against her lips.  
  
'Shush! Can't you see she's having a moment here?'  
  
His bardic instincts honed over the years, Viarmo made an instant mental note of the way the phrase was used. He had never thought that this expression, commonly referring to loving couples seeking some privacy, could possibly be chosen to describe a rogue picking a lock. And yet, this was so strangely accurate. Illa turned her lockpick slowly, carefully, listening to every slightest, quietest click - and from the smile of her face, the eager glint in her eyes, and the slight twitching of the tips of her ears, it was evident that she was enjoying herself. This was the side that she seldom showed to Viarmo, and he could not help but wonder if that was why she had joined the Thieves Guild. Not for the loot (though she insisted on describing herself as a greedy pilferer), but for the sheer thrill of breaking and entering...  
  
Finally, the lock gave way, and the door into Potema's inner sanctum swung open. The reunited team had barely crossed the threshold when the deathly still air around them, yet again, sprung alight, and the blinding purple beams slithered round them, rustling softly. Their shimmering light revealed that the four adventurers were standing over a large pile of bodies, not unlike the one that had tried to overwhelm Karliah in the water chamber, all bound together by a soft net of cobwebs. As the two mortals, the vampiress and the ghost scrutinized the expressionless faces and intertwining limbs of the slumbering draugr, the Wolf Queen spoke again. Her voice came pulsing from the darkness ahead of them, and the door behind them, and the mossy ceiling over their heads, and the thick stone floor beneath their feet.  
  
'Not much further, little ones...' Potema breathed huskily inside each intruder's head. 'I wonder... Which of you is going to serve me first... The little fanged thing has shaken off my charms, though there may still be hope for her... and as for you two elves - I will have many uses for you after you die... But the spirit... Ah, the spirit can bow to me right here, right now... It is in my power to corrupt and control the souls of the dead, not just their corpses'.  
  
Illa and Modryn exchanged anxious glances. A while ago, when the young Dunmer was still mortal, the two of them had explored a Nordic barrow, where a necromancer had subjugated the spirits of fallen warriors and made them do his bidding. And compared to Potema, he was just a child fiddling with his toys...  
  
'No,' the ghost choked, pressing his hand against his half-transparent chest, his glowing eyes fixed on the rays of purple light. 'No!'  
  
'Yes!' Potema sang, in a loud, triumphant voice, just as she had done when she was brought back into the mortal realm. 'Yes! Yes!'  
  
With a faint hiss, the purple beams ensnared Modryn like ghostly trama vines. Illa cried out in terror and reached out towards her grandfather's spirit, as he struggled helplessly with the monstrous tendrils that closed their grip tighter and tighter - but her fingers just went through him, and she leapt back, stung, as though by a lightning bolt.  
  
Gradually, Modryn's face and the quivering tips of his fingers disappeared beneath the stirring mass of twisting rays. There was a blinding flash, which swelled till it filled the entire passage. And then, the purple light went out - save for two dancing flames in Modryn's eyes. The ghost soared towards the ceiling, glaring at his companions with seething malice, his eyebrows knitted more than ever, his mouth twisted in an unfamiliar, frightening leer... And somewhere behind him, the draugr started coming to life.


	7. Modryn Takes the Red Pill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Oblivion fan fic masquerading as a chapter of a Skyrim fan fic.

_His name is Modryn Oreyn, and he is the proud right-hand mer of Vilena Donton, head of the Cyrodiil branch of the Fighters' Guild; he still has flesh on his bones, and is clad in very tangible, rattling iron armour. It is a bright, though slightly chilly morning, in the year of Akatosh, 433 of the Third Era._  
  
 _He is pacing up and down the stairwell in the Leyawiin guild hall, barely able to breathe because some sort of invisible hand has been insolent enough to grab at his heart and is now trying very hard to pull it down, somewhere into the pit of his stomach. He has arranged to meet Illari here, and is both yearning for and dreading this meeting._  
  
 _She has risen rapidly through the guild ranks during the past few months, and nowadays very few will remember that this promising young fighter, juggling swords and arrows and lightning bolts with a confident smirk, was once responsible for weapon deliveries and solving rat problems. So now, her being promoted, Serjo Oreyn and Illari keep crossing paths during the most important, the most delicate missions. As gods are his witnesses, every time a task of this nature arises, he dwells - very long and very thoughtfully - on perhaps beginning to consider the possibility to think about trying to maybe, well, assign it to other guild members... Anything to keep that little barefoot Ashlander away from him, anything to keep his long-suffering heartstrings intact._  
  
 _But the problem is, he wants her working side by side with him. He wants to see her, to talk to her, to fight knowing that she is covering his back... and he wants her, period. And this makes him completely and utterly unhinged, worse than the door of the shack where he lives. For years, he has successfully managed to push away anyone who became even remotely close to him, has avoided forming relationships - fearing that if he did, it would all end up in ruins, causing him pain and grief like when he lost his family to Malacath cultists... And now this red-headed rookie has to waltz in, with that eager, inquisitive look on her face, reading the world around her like a novel with countless plot twists, and light a spark within his heart. A spark which he has been blowing at ever since he met her, but instead of putting it out, has only been making it burn stronger._  
  
 _'Good morning, sir!' a Bosmer in heavy armour runs up the steps to greet him._  
  
 _He is one of the resident trainers, and from the way he is fussing around him, Oreyn can tell that he is trying to win his favour. Not surprisingly; the Leyawiin guild hall has fallen on hard times because of aggressive competition from the Blackwood mercenary company, and everyone is looking up to the visiting superior in hopes that he will bring about a change for the better. He has been pampered and waited on ever since his arrival; and frankly, he is more than fed up._  
  
 _'Have you heard the news from the other provinces?' the Bosmer asks shrilly. 'They say syndicates of wizards have led a boycott of Imperial goods in the land of the Altmer...'_  
  
 _His persistent attempts at small talk make Oreyn's head ache; for a moment, he seems to drift away, losing his grip on reality. The Bosmer's voice still ringing in his ears, Oreyn sees the brightly lit guild hall dissolve, replaced by the barren stone walls of a cavernous underground chamber; for a fleeting moment, the smiling face of the little elf seems stripped of all flesh, revealing a leering skull with intense blue flames in its sockets. Horror-struck, Oreyn shudders and blinks several times. The vision is gone. Must be just lack of sleep and his undying fever for Illari playing tricks on his mind._  
  
 _'Not now, Brodras,' he snaps, waving his hand to shoo the Bosmer off._  
  
 _With a sheepish cough, Brodras falls silent and scrambles down the steps. At the stairway's bottom, he bumps into a slender Dunmeri woman in mithril armour, who helps him regain balance, with those unbearably plum-shaded lips of hers parting in a reassuring grin. Illari has arrived. And there goes that jolt in his heart again._  
  
 _Illari and Brodras start talking to one another - perhaps, the Bosmer has set to retelling the latest rumour again, and knowing her, she must have instantly showered him with a torrent of questions about the mysterious Altmeri province. From where he stands, Oreyn can hear her laugh - and frowns. She never laughs when she is around him. Ever since that Chapel incident, the closest thing he can get out of her is a soft, melancholy smile; most of the time she is merely politely reserved, distant, sombre, her eyes widening slightly, as if in pain, after every harsh word from him. He can sense that he is wounding her - but the bubbling lava pool within him keeps bursting through._  
  
 _Now, too, he strides downstairs and, with a curt nod to Illari, says gruffly over his shoulder,_  
  
 _'Move it, boot. We are heading for the Arpenia ruins'._  
  
  
 _On the way to the ancient Ayleid city that they are supposed to be exploring, Oreyn recaps the mission ahead. A certain while ago, the Guild was hired by one Argoth the wizard to retrieve an enchanted sword from a bandit warlord named Azani Blackheart. The contract ended in disaster; Oreyn, who led the dungeon delve, was forced to retreat with a handful of men - mere five survivors out of twenty - under a cascade of arrows... and then, the Blackwood Company emerged, and delivered the sword to Argorth, brazenly announcing that they had succeeded where the Fighters' Guild had failed, that they, and they alone, were the only warrior group worthy of turning to for help. Later on, the wizard died under mysterious circumstances, and the sword disappeared again. This has always given Oreyn reason to suspect foul play, and now that the Blackwood Company has crossed the line more than a few times, he has decided to go against Mistress Donton's orders to 'let it rest'. And he has picked Illari to cover this back in this._  
  
 _She is listening to him with as much attention as he can ask for - but he himself has great trouble focusing. There is this infernal wreath she has woven - on her way to meet him, apparently - and now she is trotting down the path, barefoot as always, with clusters of tiny blossoms dangling over her eyes, glowing a pearly white against the rich copper of her hair. He knows that she has a weakness for all kinds of bright, soft, fragrant Cyrodiilic flowers, having supposedly grown up in the ashen wilderness of Vvardenfell, where plants have to be wiry and prickly and venomous in order to survive ('Just like you, serjo,' she told him once). He secretly finds this little peculiarity of hers endearing - which stirs up his constant irritation. Finally, there comes a moment when he can watch the dancing droplets of white no longer; with a short angry cry, he reaches forward, tears the wreath off Illari's head, tosses it to the ground and steps on it with his iron boot._  
  
 _And here again, he is blinded by another flash-like vision. The lush dark green of a Blackwood grove fades away into muddy brown, and Illari's face, heart-shaped, high-cheekboned, covered with old tribal markings, becomes haggard, desiccated; her smooth lavender skin grows pallid and wrinkled, her thick red hair shrivels to a few wispy blonde strands, and her deep crimson eyes grow blank and eerily blue..._  
  
 _He passes his hand over his eyes, and the world around him falls into place again. Illari has barely twitched a muscle - but the vertical line between her eyebrows seems to have grown slightly deeper. He first saw it appear on the wretched day when he lashed out at her with a particularly harsh insult; she turned her back on him and walked away. And a few days later, couriers on black horses came galloping down the county roads, delivering newspaper issues with breaking news. A young Dunmer and her visiting friend from the Imperial City - Ida Vlinorman, the inventor of an extreme sport known as Chapel climbing - had been attempting to brave the clock tower of the church in Cheydinhal, using a rope and a couple of hooks, when the Dunmer lost her grip on the rope and came rushing down like a wounded cliff racer. Thankfully, a resident mage, Deetsan the Argonian, happened to be walking by below; she cast an illegal Levitation spell to break the girl's fall, thus saving her life. The story raised loud debates over Chapel climbing and forbidden magic - but Oreyn couldn't care less. The hapless adrenaline seeker was Illari, and nothing, nothing in the world could convince him that she had not let go of the rope on purpose. Because of him._  
  
 _He recollects the incident with a renewed pang of pain - and then, the unthinkable happens. Modryn Oreyn, the fierce second-in-command of the Fighters' Guild, wanders off the path into the marshy meadows, where the thick, sharp-edged grass reaches up to his waist, and gathers a heap of flowers for his companion, to make a new wreath._  
  
 _They do not say a word to each other for a long time - neither when they find a massive slab of moss-covered stone that conceals the entrance to Atatar, nor when they begin their exploration. Oreyn does cast a few furtive glances at Illari, who is arranging the new flowers in her hair on the go - but whenever her eyes meet his, he turns away, pretending to be interested in a crack in the stone floor._  
  
 _Arpenia is a fairly small ruin, consisting of a single high-ceilinged chamber, which is lit up by the eerie bluish-green glow of magical crystals, fixed in clusters into stone basins and metal torch racks, long outliving the ancient elves whose hands first placed them there. It proves completely empty, save for a few rats and mudcrabs slinking about in dark corners. Illari disposes of those critters with a couple of fire bolts before Oreyn can as much as draw his mace. He looks at her in silence, as she stands over a dead rat with her legs wide apart, the wreath sliding down her sloping forehead - and lets out a small chortle, which echoes with sudden loudness through the desolate ruin. He sounds hoarse and out of practice - the sound he makes resembles a raven's caw more than anything else. But she welcomes it with a radiant smile and a light in her eyes._  
  
 _'So you really do know how to laugh, serjo...'_  
  
 _'I... I...' he stammers, feeling compelled to explain himself for going so out of character. 'I thought you looked ridiculous - in your armour, with that spell, killing mudcrabs... And wearing a wreath, too...'_  
  
 _'I remember reading somewhere...' Of course she would reference a book; fascination with written words and the worlds they create is another one of her peculiar traits. 'That sense of humour is about to point out - no, I need a participle here, don't I? - about pointing out the unusual. They say you have no sense of humour, serjo - and yet, here you are...'_  
  
 _This is the longest phrase she has said to him in weeks - they seem to be moving past that Chapel mess and all the... other messes. But even so, is that the reason to feel so boyishly, so breathlessly elated?_  
  
 _'There is obviously nothing here,' he says dryly. 'Let's move on. There is another ruin nearby, Atatar. Blackheart could be holed up there. The son of a nix has always been fascinated with Ayleids; he has to have chosen one of their cities for a hideout'._  
  
 _As they exit into daylight again, he thinks he can feel Illari's fingers brush against his, by accident, as it seems - and smiles to himself. He knows how to smile, too. And now that he has recalled the exact way of doing it, he almost cannot believe that he has been afraid of smiling all these years._  
  
  
 _Atatar, a little way off uphill, is much larger. Soon after they enter it, the narrow winding stone passage opens into a spacious hall, its other end lost beyond a veil of mist. There is a staircase right in front of them, leading deeper into the ruins, and as soon as Oreyn and Illari step out into the open, three shadows come rushing down it. Three bandits._  
  
 _Two of them, twin Redguard women with thick manes of black hair, clad from head to foot in gleaming hardened glass, advance straight at the intruders, swinging massive maces. The third, a male Bosmeri archer in light chainmail, lingers behind their backs, bow drawn._  
  
 _Illari blocks the first blow of one of the Redguards, and slides, swift and graceful, out of her sister's grasp, allowing Oreyn to launch an attack of his own while the twins are distracted. He clashes weapons with the one nearest to him, while Illari zaps the Bosmer with a quick lightning blast before he has a chance to release the string. He yelps in pain and lowers his bow for, rubbing his stung forearm; with a satisfied smirk, Illari whips her sword out of its sheath. Hand-crafted out of raw ebony and enchanted with her favourite shock magic, it was a reward from the Guild for the successful completion of an earlier contract; Oreyn picked it out himself, imagining how it would look like in her hand, how her fingers would close in round its hilt, how she would smile in triumph after making her first kill with it..._  
  
 _While the archer is incapacitated, Oreyn and Illari lock themselves in close combat with the two Redguards. Fighting side by side, just as he dreamed... He feels a hot, pleasant wave rush through his body, as if he had just drunk a large goblet of wine a little too quickly; his heart pounds excitedly - and yet his mind, as he foresees and intercepts his adversary's every move, is crystal clear. Clear than it has ever been in battle. Or so he thinks..._  
  
 _The vision returns for the third time. But this time, the bandits are not transformed into terrifying dead beings. They retain their living flesh - but drastically change in appearance._  
  
 _The Redguard circling ahead of him, attempting to knock him off his feet and grunting with pain every time he finds a weak spot in his armour, suddenly, inexplicably turns into an Altmer. Male. Dressed only below his waist and fighting with a glowing, half-transparent blade. Not too lank or flabby, but still not exactly built like a warrior. With wild fair hair, a knotted beard, and green eyes. And a strange look on his face - as though he is imploring Oreyn to stop hitting him._  
  
 _The second Redguard, the one cornered by Illari, also transforms - though without a change in gender. Her face elongates, her cheeks sink, and her skin grows grey, like a Dunmer's, though slightly paler; her curly hair becomes sleek and straight and turns from black to red, as though springing aflame - and her brown eyes suddenly drown in a cold yellow glow. A Dunmeri vampire... She looks terrifyingly like Illari now, safe for the clear marks of undeath - the two warriors striking at each other could be sisters... or rather, she could be Illari's reflection in some sort of twisted nightmarish mirror. Illari herself does not seem to notice the change, however, and keeps addressing her adversary by calling her 'a human n'wah'._  
  
 _And finally, the Bosmer, who seems to have come to his senses a bit, also changes his gender. The archer now appears to be another Dunmeri woman - or rather, a half-blood, judging by the unusual lilac tint of her eyes. She is wrapped in a pitch-black cloak, and is drawing the string of a bow the same colour..._  
  
 _The sharp twang of the string and the burning pain in his shoulder bring Oreyn back to his senses. The Altmer and the two Dunmer fade away as suddenly as they appeared, and it is the three bandits that Illari finishes off with deafening flame explosions, one after the other, screaming something shrilly and incoherently, perhaps in the tongue of her ancestors - while Oreyn himself sways slightly on one spot, light-headed and nauseous. The arrow must have been coated in poison, and now it is beginning to take effect._  
  
 _'Why is it a target spell?' he asks thickly after Illari steps over the crispy bodies of the bandits and shoots a small blue orb at her guild superior. Her hands seem to be shaking; she misses, and the orb lands with a soft pop at Oreyn's feet._  
  
 _'Ex-excuse me?' she asks, her voice trembling a little._  
  
 _'Why isn't it a touch spell?' he slurs on, too sick to care about what he is saying. 'I want you... to touch me...'_  
  
 _She lingers before casting the spell for the second time. Oreyn lowers himself onto the floor, his head swimming, his arm going numb, green spots beginning to float before his eyes. She gasps in alarm, and lights the orb again. It breaks against his shoulder, enveloping it in a soothingly cold blue veil - and as she watches him stagger back to his feet, pain ebbing away, she says quietly,_  
  
 _'You never let me, serjo. Why is that?'_  
  
 _He does not answer this question; and she does not persist - thinking, perhaps, that he has not heard her, that he was delirious... But he keeps asking it to himself, over and over, as they make their way along mist-filled corridors, evading ancient traps and clashing with new groups of bandits now and again. The vision of the two Dunmer and the Altmer with pleading eyes returns a few times in the heat of the battle, but he is beginning to get used to it, insane as it might sound. It is not his primary concern now. Not the vision, not even Blackheart..._  
  
 _Why? Why doesn't he let her touch him? After the disaster in Cheydinhal, it became evident that she returns his feelings. What is stopping him from revealing his secret infatuation with her? Is he still afraid of the pain that he will feel if they grow too close and he loses her? But who is to say that he will lose her? So far, forcing himself to keep away from her has hurt him - them both - more than those imaginary tragedies he is avoiding. True, his whole world shattered to pieces when his kin were killed. But when he still had them, weren't those the happiest days of his life? By the Three, he is so tired of running away from happiness, of losing himself in his work, of killing every last shred of emotion inside his heart - while he can just reach out and touch the missing piece that will make his broken world whole again..._  
  
  
  
 _Unlike the rest of the ruin, the final chamber is not quite as dank and murky and touched by the cold breath of desolation. The stone floor is barely visible beneath thick ornate carpets, obviously of modern make; the light is coming from blazing fires instead of pale glowing crystals, and there is furniture arranged cozily in the corners and in the centre. Chairs, tables, even a couple of bookcases - carved out of the finest wood, even gilded in places. And amongst all this splendour, a tall, brawny Redguard in elven armour sits luxuriating, his legs stretched far out, his fingers cupped casually round a silver goblet of wine. He looks up at Oreyn, an unpleasant smile playing on his lips._  
  
 _'Why, hello there, Oreyn,' he says, in a deep, falsely silky voice. 'So happy to see you under different circumstances. Last time we met, you were bending in two, bleeding like a pig out of that wound in your stomach, and gave me the trademark Dark Elf death glare while I ran that boy Vitellus through... If you have come to negotiate, I am afraid you are too late. I already made a perfectly fine deal with your competitors. They got me the enchanted Ayleid sword I wanted,' he pats fondly at the sheathed weapon leaning against the back of his tall-backed chair, 'Disposed of that meddlesome wizard - and dragged your Guild through mud in the process, too'._  
  
 _Oreyn inhales deeply and bares his mace. The Redguard acknowledges the gesture, grasping the sword and shifting it to his knees._  
  
 _'Ah, so I see you are going for that boring old routine of trying to kill me? Very well, I will be happy to oblige'. He narrows his eyes mockingly, 'From your battered look, I'd say you either have been on a heavy drinking spree, or you killed all of my men. If the latter - a pity, of course, but I didn't trust those dust-biters anyway. I don't really need guard dogs since I have Sinweaver here,' with these words, the Redguard slides the sheath back a little, revealing a narrow metallic strip that glows a faint red and gold. 'And it has not had a morsel of fresh blood for days. I wonder, though,' his smile grows even broader, and even more unpleasant. 'After I kill you, will you let me have a little fun with this hussy of yours? I am sure she won't mind - your kind's women think with their unmentionables, don't they?'_  
  
 _'Enough, Blackheart!'_  
  
 _Oreyn feels all the blood that there is in his body flood his chest and neck, and then rush away, leaving him shaking with cold. Blackheart's face flickers, replaced by that of the Dunmer vampiress and then returning again - but Oreyn does not deign to pay heed to this. In a raging whirlwind, he charges at the Redguard - and before as much as denting his armour, flies back, knocked off his feet by the sword's flaming strike._  
  
 _His iron cuirass absorbs most of the impact against the wall, although he still needs a moment to gather his strength before getting up. But he is barely able to make a move before Blackheart strides over towards him and sets his foot down on his chest, pressing him into the floor. Then, leering, he gives Oreyn's exposed throat a small, almost playful prick with Sinweaver's tip... And starts, pupils dilating in alarm, when a loud and slightly hoarse female voice says something behind his back in Velothi, pronouncing each short, snarling world with deliberate effort. Blackheart turns his head to cast a surprised look at the 'hussy', who stares at him intensely, with cold, unyielding anger. And thus gives her a perfect chance to let go of her bowstring (she has brought her bow as well, and switched to it from her sword during the Redguard's little speech) and land a perfect shot right into the middle of his eyeball._  
  
 _Sinweaver spins out of Blackheart's grasp, and his body clatters down next to Oreyn, who sneezes as the feathers from the arrow sticking out of the Redguard's face tickle his nose. Illari leans down to give him a helping hand._  
  
 _'Wait,' Oreyn says, pushing himself up on his elbows. 'Not to have you bend twice - take his ring. He has to be wearing a special signet ring; I took a good look at it while he was slicing Vitellus Donton in two right before my eyes. If we retrieve it, it will be sufficient proof that it was us that defeated Blackheart, not the Blackwood Company'._  
  
 _When Illari hears that Oreyn is concerned about her bending twice - which may not seem like much, but is still a pleasant surprise, coming from him - the tips of her ears flush a faint pink. The flush remains while she is fumbling with Blackheart's body, and tugging at his limp, lifeless arm, and struggling to jerk a massive gold ring off his finger._  
  
 _'Got it,' she says at last, drawing away from the body with her hand clenched into a fist, and allowing Oreyn to lean on her while straightening up. 'Blackheart's ring. The Guild is... how do you say... redeemed'._  
  
 _And then, adds, with the flush growing stronger, devouring her ears and spreading down to her cheeks,_  
  
 _'Serjo... In honour of this moment... Can you let me do something... something I want... wanted... have wanted... been wanting... that I thought... dreamed of doing for a long time... I swear, it won't happen again!'_  
  
 _'What is it?' Oreyn asks - not unkindly, mellowed by the thought that they finally got the better of the Blackwood Company._  
  
 _'This,' she whispers shakily - and, not seeming to mind the fact that they are standing right over a dead body, kisses Oreyn on the cheek._  
  
 _The sudden surge of elation almost brings tears to his eyes. And he was so bent on sacrificing this - this - to his fears, to his stubborn pride? Gods, he has been such a fool!_  
  
 _He is still stunned by the sudden soft touch of her lips when she steps back, holding her breath - apparently bracing herself for a fit of rage. But instead of yelling at her as he usually does, Oreyn draws closer and murmurs, smiling, with a tenderness that he did not know he had in him,_  
  
 _'You rookies... Always messing things up... Let me show you how it is done'._  
  
 _And putting his arm round her waist, he kisses her full on the mouth. He drinks her in with the shuddering greed of a man dying of thirst in a desert; he feels her warmth flow through his veins, making his heart swell to twice its size; he closes his eyes and allows the whole world to fade away, safe for that warmth and that soft tongue, caressing his..._  
  
 _And then, something makes him tear his eyes open and break the kiss. With a hissing curse, he unlocks his arms and stares over Illari's shoulder. Blackheart has risen to his feet; the arrow has mysteriously vanished from his socket, and he is brandishing Sinweaver again._  
  
 _'This... This can't be right...' Oreyn mutters blankly. 'Illari... Are you seeing - what I am seeing?'_  
  
 _But Illari is gone, nowhere to be seen, no matter how urgently, how desperately he calls out to her. He is left in the empty chamber, face to face with Blackheart - who is jeering at him again, taunting him to start their fight anew. Oreyn jerks his head from side to side._  
  
 _'You are dead,' he says, hesitating slightly. And then repeats, his voice steadily growing firmer, 'You are dead. You are dead!'_  
  
 _His foot half-lifted in a step towards him, Blackheart fades away into darkness. And so does the rest of the room; its colours are swept away, like a handful of sand in the wind, leaving behind the mossy, dripping walls of a completely different underground ruin he has seen before. And, looking down at his hands in mute terror, he realizes that the same thing is happening to his body. His flesh flakes away, his bones dissolve; with a sickening chill, he feels himself growing transparent, and understanding of what has just happened is slowly dawning on him..._  
  
  
  
'She used me... The Wolf Queen. She manipulated me through... through one of my most precious memories. I thought I was still alive, battling side by side with my wife... I mean, my future wife back then. The draugr looked like my allies, and you... you looked like my enemies...'  
  
Modryn fell silent, hovering over the pile of draugr, laid to final rest through the joint efforts of Illa, Viarmo and Karliah.  
  
Illa stretched out her hand, attempting to touch his transparent fingers. It had to be the first time when she looked at her grandfather without exasperation.  
  
'I am sorry...'  
  
'I don't need your sympathy!' Modryn snapped, with unmistakable pain and guilt in his voice. 'I failed you. I failed as an Ancestor Guardian. I turned against you, when I should have protected you'.  
  
'Hey, it's not your fault!' Illa exclaimed, dredging up a cheerful tone. 'Anyone can get possessed! I got possessed loads of times! Karliah here got possessed - remember, when you and Bryn turned against each other? Viarmo... Well, I tend to possess him quite a lot'.  
  
Modryn shook his head.  
  
'I am going back to the beyond for a while. Gather my thoughts. I no longer see myself fit to accompany you on this quest... But before I leave...'  
  
He glided up to the Altmer and laid his hand on his shoulder. Viarmo let out a stifled cry of shock as his whole body burst into golden flames - which did not harm him, but looked like they would scorch anyone who got too near.  
  
'You are about to enter Potema's Inner Sanctum. There you will doubtlessly encounter most of her undead horde. Use this flame cloak in battle - but do not get too near Illa; she is undead, too, after all'.  
  
'But... But...' the bard mumbled, uncomprehending, 'I thought you granted this power only to your family members...'  
  
'You _are_ my family member,' Modryn said simply, before fading away.


	8. Happy Endings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Context for Modryn's drunken antics in a flashback towards the end of this chapter: 
> 
> In my headcanon, after the Trolls of Forsaken Mine quest, which leads to an escalation of rivalry between the Fighters’ Guild and the Blackwood company, and involves the Guildmaster’s remaining son getting killed, Modryn Oreyn fired, and Modryn’s eager helper (in my case, Illari) demoted, Oreyn has a breakdown. Torn apart by anger at the Blackwood Company, guilty over young Donton’s death and shocked by losing his beloved job, he ends up getting waaay deep in his cups and thrashing the Grey Mare tavern. From where Illari finally drags him back home and lays him to rest.

The child giggled with excitement as she scribbled with a bit of charcoal on a greasy slip of paper, both her hands, the tip of her nose and even her cheeks smeared with black dust. It was Sundas, and the miners were to be back home early. Used to be that Sundas was a proper day off, but now that the grown-ups from the big cities had decided to start each other, more metal needed to be mined, and everyone in Darkwater Crossing had to work on Sundas mornings too... But soon, very soon, they would return, and she would be able to share her super-duper-extra-special friendship gift!  
  
When, at long last, she was satisfied with her work, the child slipped off the tree stump that she had turned into her drawing desk, and trotted through the grass towards the mine entrance, pulling up the hem of her skirt in order not to trip over it. And there they came - emerging out of the narrow gash in the rock, marching in a single file... such a pity that they weren't singing a song, though! And oh, oh, there was her bestest friend, pickaxe on the shoulder, specks of dirt in his knotted beard, his eyes glistening red like a lady-bug's wings.  
  
'Sondas, Sondas, Sondas!' she called out in a shrill, silvery voice, as she raced towards him.  
  
'Hey, little one,' he chuckled, sweeping her up into his arms. 'Look at you: you are grimier than me, and I have spent the morning coaxing the ore out of the rock!'  
  
'I have drawn a gift for you,' she said, grinning proudly, and thrust the slip of paper into his hands.  
  
The Dunmeri miner peered down at the girl's drawing; it showed a rather disproportionate stick figure with two long, pitch-black smears round the face and below the chin, holding a pickaxe at least twice its size. Below the figure, six clumsy letters danced in a row, spelling out the word, 'S u N D a S'.  
  
'It's you,' the girl explained, poking her finger at the drawing, 'And I even wrote your name under it, using all those letters you taught me'.  
  
The Dunmer smiled and ruffled the child's hair.  
  
'Thank you, Hrefna,' he said. 'I really appreciate your gift. But you... you spelled my name wrong. You made it look like a day of the week. Today, in fact. Not that I mind, it's just a little funny'.  
  
Hrefna squeaked with glee,  
  
'It is! I drew Sundas on Sundas!'  
  


  
***

  
  
Looking down upon this cute little scene on Nirn from his hall in the Shivering Isles, Sheogorath, the Prince of Madness, froze in his throne as a ghostly voice inside his mind called out triumphantly,  
  
'Aha! Two Sundases have met! Remember your vow, Madgod! Set me free! You have used my body to regain your strength after the Greymarch - it is time you release my spirit!'  
  
Frustrated, the Daedra Prince slammed his fist into a nearby cheese wedge (and in the throne room in New Sheoth, there is always a cheese wedge nearby).   
  
'Not fair!' he growled. 'Not fair! I need to go back in time and turn that stupid girl into a water lily - or a toad! Or stuff her inside her house with her little doggie and toss her into a faraway land where brains walk around and hunt for scarecrows! Or was it the other way round? Ah, what does it matter! She doesn't even have a little doggie!..' he fell silent for a moment, then drew a deep, resigned sigh. 'Well, fine, fine, Champion! I set you free! Go now! Shoo! Fly off to Azura's or Candy Mountain or wherever it is you people go after death! And don't write! Well, okay, you can write - but only postcards! And only if these postcards have dancing cabaret chickens on them! No, that would make them look exactly like the postcards my muppet friend Gonzo is sending me...'  
  
He was still rambling when a see-through, glowing, bluish shape separated itself from his body - a slender elven woman, most likely a Dunmer, judging by her rugged, somewhat unfeminine features, and the distinctive tribal markings on her face. She lingered a little at the Madgod's side - and then said, with a wistful, almost tender smile,  
  
'I spent two hundred years hating and cursing you, Sheogorath - for tricking me into becoming part of you... But I will still miss you. Be well, Prince of Madness'.  
  
Before fading away, she blew him a kiss - but he pretended to be busy turning his goblet into a chicken.

  
  
***

  
  
'Well now,' Illa said in a business-like tone, clenching and unclenching her fists - as though exercising her fingers for upcoming spellcasting. 'This looks like a boss fight setting if there ever was one'.  
  
Viarmo drew himself up to his full height, holding his breath and taking in the scene that opened before him. The chamber they had entered was more spacious than any previous section of the ruin; its arching ceiling was lost somewhere in the purplish murk over the heads of the three adventurers, and there were tall black sarcophagi lining its walls - sarcophagi which, as the bard's few hours of experience were telling him, would not stay shut for long.  
  
'What's the plan?' Karliah asked, readying her bow.  
  
She was addressing Illa - but it was Viarmo how spoke in reply. The ancestral ghost's flaming touch seemed to have penetrated through his skin, quickening his blood flow, spreading the heat through his body, making him feel strong, and confident, and more like a warrior than he could ever have imagined himself.   
  
'I go in first,' he said, loudly, firmly, the sound of his own voice going to his head. 'You cover me from behind. Let us banish the Wolf Queen once and for all!'  
  
 _'Not so fast, mortals...'_   
  
Yes again, the familiar echoing call filled the chamber, as did the rays of piercing purple light. They burned brighter than ever before, scorching the intruders' eyes, flowing together in dazzling torrents, coiling into an enormous orb... The two women behind Viarmo's back gasped in shock and awe as the blindingly white ethereal ball loomed over their heads, as if some ghostly, monstrous creature was peering mockingly into their faces, looking down on them in disdain; but the bard himself stood firm, without a word, without a sound, revelling in the sensation of fire coursing through his veins - feeling, thanks to Modryn's magical protection and Illa's hypnosis, that no danger was too great for him.  
  
Illa saw this overwhelming self-assurance in his face; in the way he held his head, so high, so proud; in the very outline of his figure, a tall golden statue engulfed in flames... And smiled, instantly forgetting about the ominous orb of light - and whispered to Karliah,  
  
'Look, look, look how sexy he is!'  
  
The thief gave her vampiric friend a scornful look beneath what is commonly known as a unibrow. In the meanwhile, the Wolf Queen went on speaking, and each of her words was accompanied by an angry lash of several lightning bolts, protruding from the orb like ghostly tendrils, against the stone walls of the chamber,  
  
 _'You've come far - but can you stand against my inner council? Let's see!'_  
  
When she fell silent, just as Viarmo had suspected, the sarcophagi lids thudded down to the floor, releasing a wave of shambling corpses. The bard smiled a slow, almost dreamy smile, summoning his blade with what had already become a habitual gesture. This was going to be... So. Much. Fun.

  
  
***

  
  
'Baby, I love you so much!' Illa screamed ecstatically, kicking aside the draugr she had just felled, shooting an ice spike right between its eyes - the stupid mouldy old thing had been blocking her view of Viarmo. And what a view it was! The bard, stripped to the waist and cloaked in flames, his hair standing on end, was dashing across the chamber, piercing one sunken, shrivelled draugr chest after another with his bound sword - and fending off the remaining undead with a simple wave of his blazing hand. One touch of his long, glowing golden fingers was enough to send a draugr running off, wheezing in pain, clawing at the blistering, flaking skin on its face - till it was put out of its misery, once and for all, by a well-aimed arrow from Karliah or a shard of ice from Illa.  
  
'I love you, too!' Viarmo called back, whirling around and slapping several draugr in the face, his hand flashing through the air in a fiery blur. Somewhere at the back of his swimming head, his former well-behaved, bookish self flailed about in silent astonishment. He was no longer able to recognize himself; it felt a little like when he was making love to Illa for the first time, while the voice of reason was imploring him to turn back and walk away before it was too late... It seemed that turning his head, in one way or another, ran in the Oreyn family.  
  
'You two are ridiculous,' Karliah muttered, without looking up from her bow; though her tone was not as hostile as when she had quarreled with Illa, it was still disapproving.  
  
'Ridiculously awesome!' Illa responded teasingly, as she lit up a new spell just in time to dispose of yet another advancing draugr.  
  
 _'Don't applaud yourself too soon, worm!'_  
  
The Wolf Queen's voice slashed through the chamber's dank air like a blade, and the orb of light, which so far had been hovering passively over the battlefield, came alive again, raining lightning bolts. Their reflexes honed by years of living as rogues, the two women dashed aside, dodging the strikes of the long, sizzling, electrified whips, and cowered behind two toppling sarcophagi - but Viarmo wasn't fast enough, too consumed by his battle fury to notice anything but the fleeing draugr. The blast of shock hit him square in the chest; with a short, stifled cry of what sounded like surprise rather than pain, the bard lost his balance and tumbled down; the golden light enveloping him faded away, and the fearsome, bloodthirsty warrior was replaced by the Headmaster of the Bards' College, dragged off on an adventure that had taken him too far. Half-naked, trembling all over, he lay curled up on the floor, the white orb swelling over his head till its raging light filled the entire chamber.  
  
 _'Rise, my pets!'_ the ghostly voice thundered imperiously.   
  
At its command, the draugr that lay on the floor around Viarmo, struck down by his bound blade, staggered back to their feet, grunting and groaning, drawing closer, bending down, groping for living flesh to rip and mangle - while the bard watched them helplessly, apparently completely unable to move after the petrifying lightning blast.   
  
_'Yes! Yes!'_ the Wolf Queen broke into her usual triumphant, leering song, as Viarmo's fingers twitched weakly after one of the draugr had sliced at his arm with its long, jagged nails, leaving four deep, oozing crimson gashes. _'Tear the eyes from his head!'_  
  
  
'D-Dragonling?' Karliah mouthed falteringly, backing away from Illa in alarm.  
  
When her husband fell, the vampiress had begun to... change. Her fangs bared, her gaunt face twisting into a bestial snarl, she let out a low, angry growl - and once again, disappeared inside a swirling inky-black cloud. When it dispersed, a few moments later, like a dark tidal wave ebbing away, it revealed the grey, hulking creature that had attacked the thief and the bard in the alchemical laboratory. Spreading its webbed wings, throwing its gnarled arms apart, the monster rushed forward, almost knocking Karliah off her feet, and dove head-first into the stirring mass of dead limbs clawing at Viarmo's limp body.   
  
Karliah had to take great effort focusing her aim in order not to accidentally shoot her transformed friend. The monster that had but a few minutes ago been Illa tore through the draugr's ranks with claws and blood-red bursts of magic - ignoring the shower of lightning from above. It seemed almost as if the Wolf Queen and the vampiress were playing some kind of terrifying game: the more draugr the creature tore apart, the more obstinately, more persistently Potema kept reviving them. Karliah's shots, however precise, however well-timed appeared utterly pathetic compared to the titanic struggle of the two powerful undead.  
  
After a while, however, it became evident that the fight was draining the strength of both the Wolf Queen and Illa. The vampiress, swaying and covered in blood, had started backing off from the draugr every now and again, merging with the shadows or dissolving into a fluttering cloud of bats for a few moments to regain her strength - while the orb of light gradually shrank in size, each of its lightning blasts weaker than the next. It was only a matter of time before one of the adversaries grew completely worn out - and Karliah intended to do all she could to make sure it wasn't Illa. The dark-cloaked archer, who had initially stuck with providing meek, barely noticeable backup, was now taking over the battlefield. Like the shadow of a cloud sliding across the grass, like an elusive wild bird, which is always one step ahead of the trapper, she dashed across the chamber, firing arrow after arrow, aiming for the draugr's glowing sockets, for their ravenous, snapping jaws, for the most vulnerable joints in their desiccated corpses - not letting a single shot go to waste.   
  
But, of course, 'tis a perfect quiver that is never emptied, and in our imperfect world even a master archer is bound to run out of arrows sooner or later. In her ceaseless dance around the chamber, shooting draugr and evading Potema's lightning bolts, Karliah had had no time to lean down to her defeated foes and retrieve her arrows - so there came a point when she found herself with her back pressed to the wall, the three remaining draugr advancing relentlessly at her and her empty quiver rattling against her hip.  
  
Lifting her arm to block the first strike with her bow, Karliah narrowed her eyes, frantically attempting to formulate a coherent plan. But it turned out that she did not really have to strain her poor aching head - the draugr were already grasping at her weapon, attempting to tear it out of her hands, when a deafening voice roared behind her back in some ancient tongue that Gallus would have surely been able to identify,  
  
'IIZ SLEN!'  
  
The two words brought with them a wave of cold that swept over the draugr's heads, turning them in motionless icy statues. When Karliah's ears stopped ringing with the echo of this roaring cry, she stepped forward, leaned against the petrified figure closest to her and pushed with all her might. The draugr fell clumsily to the floor, bringing the other two down with it like dominoes.   
  
The Wolf Queen wailed in rage and desperation; this sound, merging with the ear-splitting noise the frozen corpses made when they shattered, made Karliah bend in two, clutching her head - but even in this pose, she was able to see the flash of light right beneath the curve of the ceiling. Like the last of the draugr it had revived, the white orb broke into pieces - into separate rays of light, which trailed away, snake-like, through the half-open door at the farthest end of the chamber.  
  
With a shuddering breath of relief, Karliah leapt over the jagged shards of the draugr's ice forms - and landed inches away from Illa, who had reverted back to her elven form.  
  
'I completely forgot I could do this nifty little trick,' she said, glancing at the pile of ice with a air of mild astonishment. 'I forgot so many things after I became a vampire...'  
  
Then, her face clouded, and she added in a much more serious tone,  
  
'I hope you still have some potions on you'.

  
  
***

  
  
'I... I didn't know I had that much blood left in me after... after the vampire bite...' Viarmo muttered faintly, his tips quivering in an attempt at a smile.  
  
He was lying on the floor, his head resting on Illa's knees, while Karliah was turning out her pockets in search of a potion they could use to close the bard's wounds. And he had many, left by the draugr's hands and teeth; most of the markings on his skin were not too deep, but each was torn and mangled, with blood streaming from it in dark rivulets. Illa was gently stroking Viarmo's hair to soothe him - but her yellow eyes were fixed on Karliah in a fierce, unblinking glare that made the usually graceful thief fumble about awkwardly, getting entangled in her own armour.  
  
'I'm sorry, Dragonling,' Karliah said, at long last. 'I think I'm all out'.  
  
'Never mind,' Illa replied in a lowered, strained voice. 'I will heal him myself. I still remember that spell...'  
  
'But...' the thief remarked hesitantly, 'Isn't the Restoration school harmful to vampires?'  
  
Illa did not deign to give an answer; instead, she shifted around Viarmo a little and placed her hand on his bare, hot, blood-smeared chest, whispering,  
  
'Hold still, sweetness. It might sting a little'.  
  
She set to work with her lips pursed tightly and her eyebrows knitted, hovering her fingers over each of Viarmo's wounds and letting rays of tingling golden light wash over his torn skin, drawing the edges of the bleeding gashes together, stopping the blood flow, returning the life force to the bard's body. Both Viarmo and Karliah watched Illa in mute shock - for it soon became clear that the thief had been right in her concern about healing magic. The spell, intended to mend the flesh of living beings, appeared to be backfiring on its undead caster - in a way that brought silent tears to Viarmo's eyes.  
  
While Illa was using vampire dust to cure her husband of Sanguinare Vampiris, it had seemed, for a fleeting moment, that a net of thin dark lines had appeared on her temples. Viarmo, dazed and drained as he was, had not given it much thought at the time, figuring that it could have been a mere trick of the light. But now the lines emerged again, crossing Illa's face like cracks and making it frighteningly similar to a shattered porcelain mask; as she closed more and more of the bard's wounds, these cracks seemed to grow deeper, broader, spreading down along her neck and creeping up her fingers. The was obviously in pain, but not a sound escaped her parched lips; she kept casting, her face completely impenetrable, and her agony was betrayed only by her blazing eyes, surrounded by black circles with intertwining cracks crawling into them like rivers flowing into the sea.  
  
Finally, Viarmo felt that he could not watch Illa suffer any longer; when only one wound remained, he pushed himself up into a sitting position and caught Illa by the wrist with one hand, while digging the fingers of another into his own flesh, deepening the mark left by the draugr, making more blood ooze out of the mangled gash.  
  
'Drink,' he said, wincing slightly, and moved his hand from Illa's wrist to the top of her head, forcing her to bend over the wound like a child forces a puppy's nose into a saucer with milk.  
  
She shook her head, her eyes widening and her eyebrows gliding upwards.  
  
'Drink!' Viarmo repeated in a much more demanding, almost threatening tone. 'Drink, woman - I order you as... as the head of our household!'  
  
'Some household we have,' she mouthed with a faint smile.  
  
The movement of Illa's lips made several smaller cracks merge into a deep, pitch-black line. She made a small wheezing noise - and pressed her mouth against Viarmo's wound, drinking greedily, while he wrapped his arm reassuringly round her shoulders, and Karliah looked on, her lilac eyes dimmed by a teary film.  
  
Finally, Illa fell back, gasping hoarsely, and hurried to eel out of Viarmo's embrace and wipe her mouth with her sleeve. The cracks were growing fainter by the second, till her pallid skin grew smooth again. Completely back to her senses, Illa tore a large strip of cloth off the bottom of the laced grey shirt she wore beneath her armour, and used it to bandage Viarmo's remaining wound.  
  
'You silly boy,' she said, shaking her head, 'What if I want another taste?'  
  
'I will keep my guard up,' Viarmo replied, drawing her close to him again. 'I would rather keep eluding your pretty little fangs than see you crumble into ashes before my eyes... Besides,' he added as he kissed her lightly in the corner of the mouth, 'There are plenty of ways in which we can taste one another without bloodshed...'  
  
He let his last word melt into another kiss, longer and more forceful than the first, and another, scorching her neck; he pressed Illa so close to his bare chest that his heartbeat pulsed through her vampiric body, while his free hand fingered the laces on her bodice. Startled by his caresses, which were a little unexpected, given that he had a freshly bandaged wound, Illa ended up smirking and responding to his touch, reaching out towards his greaves...  
  
'Ahem,' Karliah coughed meaningfully, hovering over the two of them. 'What about Potema?'  
  
'Potema has fled,' Viarmo replied through a groan of pleasure, 'We can... fight her... later...'  
  
And then, tore himself away from Illa and added earnestly,  
  
'Please... I know that it is terribly cruel and selfish on our part, but...'  
  
'I get it, I get it,' Karliah sighed in exasperation, 'You have been apart for so long you won't rest until you get a proper guar-with-two-backs routine done, no matter where, no matter when, no matter how many dead bodies are around you. You have thirty-five minutes; I will scout around for loot. Retrieve my arrows. If something dangerous shows up, I will give a signal, and you will have to cease immediately. And just for the record, Dragonling: you two have just made me mad again, and you owe me big time'.  
  
Illa nodded eagerly, and, after a little consideration, cast a muffling spell on herself and Viarmo, so that their cries would not disturb Karliah. The thief acknowledged this with a curt nod, and walked away, grumbling under her breath in the ancient Dunmeri tongue - and her ever-lustful friend closed her eyes and let her body sink into perfect, golden sunlight...  
  


  
***

  
  
The insolent little specks of filth had defeated her at every turn. Her undead guardians had fallen, and the turncoat vampiress had shaken off the possessive enchantment and forced her to spend all her magical energy on reanimating wave after wave of draugr. Even the ghost had not proved half as useful as she had expected. And now, she was reduced to crawling back to her innermost chamber like a cornered she-wolf, while that worthless wretch and her mortal lover were rolling around on the floor of her Inner Council's hall, licking and groping one another, and their thieving companion was rummaging through her most trusted servants' coffins! But she was not going to surrender; her spirit remained as unbroken in death as it had been in life, when she sowed destruction among her own family for the sake of the Imperial throne. She was Potema, the Queen of Solitude, and she would not go down without a fight.  
  
She met the three of them standing in front of her throne - a tall apparition enveloped in bluish glow, with a flickering, ever-shifting face that was moulded from the image of a beautiful woman with a tall forehead and a strong jaw, into a shriveled, ghastly old witch's mask, with blank eyes and tangled hair - and finally, to a leering skull. She scowled in disdain at the ragtag bunch of elves hovering on the threshold. Just look at them: the sultry rogue, all covered in dust and cobwebs from dungeon-crawling; the vampiress, fumbling with her lopsided clothing; and the warrior poet, bare-chested, wild-haired and a little disoriented - still recovering from recent love-making, the worm. She would not let them overpower her! True, most of her magicka was drained - but she was still capable of summoning a blade and cleaving off the fools' heads!  
  
The ghostly figure made a broad step forward, a pale fire lighting up in its cupped hands and shaping itself into a massive ancient Nord sword - which the spectre swung at the three adventurers with barely any effort. Hitting them with its flat, the see-through blade knocked them off their feet in one tremendous sweep. As they lay on the floor, coughing and groping for support, the spirit glided closer to them, laughing a low, gurgling, malicious laugh.   
  
The Wolf Queen allowed herself a few moments to decide whom finish off first, and settled on Viarmo, who was struggling the most to get up because of his hastily bandaged wound - making violent love to Illa on the stone floor had not been exactly therapeutic. The ghost hovered over the bard, emanating a breath of benumbing cold, and lifted the sword again for another swing. But just at that moment, saving her beloved mer in the nick of time not unlike her grandmother back in the day, Illa whirled to her feet and shot the apparition through the chest with a lightning bolt. Her spell consumed the last of the Wolf Queen's magicka; the sword in the transparent hand dissolved, and, with a faint hiss of rage, the ghost rushed towards the vampiress, clawing helplessly at thin air as Illa promptly stepped aside, turning into a pillar of black smoke. This gave Viarmo an opportunity to finally get up, with Karliah's aid, and light up his new favourite spell. The firebolt.  
  
The three elves jumped back, pressing themselves against the walls, as the bard set off a raging explosion in the centre of the room. The fiery whirlwind consumed Potema's spirit; and for a moment, it looked as through the flames of Viarmo's spell were a regal mantle wrapped around her shoulders. She towered over the intruders, beautiful and terrifying - and then melted away into a wisp of vapour, and when the flames settled, there was nothing left of her but a tiny pool of ectoplasm, dripping off a skull that was crowned by a circlet with three gemstones.  
  
This... this was it. They had reached the end of the dungeon and, after fending off her countless minions, had faced the Wolf Queen herself. The final battle had seemed rather short - but it was only too natural, as Potema had used up most of her strength setting traps for them; and they were really not the ones to complain. All they had to do now was take a deep breath and let the thought sink in: the Wolf Queen would trouble the people of Solitude no more. At least, until some other bunch of crazy necromancers decided to summon her again.  
  
'This... This would make for a perfect song,' Viarmo said dreamily, after a long, stunned silence, stretching out his hand towards Potema's remains, as if to check if they were real.  
  
'Pshaw!' Illa snorted. 'You are too modest, my darling Vehk! An epic poem! A novel! Now, that would be worthy of Viarmo, Slayer of the Wolf Queen!'  
  
'We did it all together,' he said softly.  
  
'Of course we did if all together!' Karliah cut in venomously. 'If it weren't for me, you two would have been stuck practicing Dibellan arts!'  
  
'If it weren't for you and Grandpa Modryn,' Illa corrected her with a chuckle. 'Wonder how that grumpy old ghost is doing back in the afterlife?'

  
  
***

  
  
They say that the ancestor spirits leave the beyond to help and guide their descendants with great reluctance, for they find the afterlife to be serene and comforting compared to the cold, cruel, lawless world of mortals. Generally, that was true for Modryn. He cherished every chance he got to leave behind his granddaughter, with her law-breaking antics, her countless love affairs and her inferiority complex regarding that Altmer she had married, and to return to the vast, peaceful plane where the spirits dwelled - most of them still recovering from centuries of supporting the Ghostfence. But not today. Today, when he was swept off across the Divide, he felt utterly miserable. He was supposed to aid Illa in battle - and instead, he had allowed a vile necromancer to take control of him. He had forsaken his duty as Ancestor Guardian. He had failed his Illa. Betrayed her.   
  
With a faint groan, the spirit looked around him and saw that the starry nothingness at his sides was shaping itself into old, familiar surroundings. The thin wooden walls. The rickety furniture. The leaky roof over his head. There it was, the room in his house in Chorrol. Somewhat cleaner than he remembered, and flooded with bright light - but still. Well, he was hardly surprised. Last time he had hated himself so much, he was still alive, and still living in this house. It was only fitting that he relive those memories now...

  
  
***

  
  
_'I said, another!' he slams his fist on the counter. Is he yelling? Perhaps... After his fifth mug, the world plunged into a blurry haze, and he stopped hearing his own voice._  
  
 _'Please, sir,' the Nord innkeeper implores him. 'You have had more than enough...'_  
  
 _'What is it to you, n'wah?!' he splutters, leaning forward; the movement makes the inn spin around uncontrollably, and he has to pause for breath before speaking again. 'I am paying!'_  
  
 _She shakes her head._  
  
 _'I think you should be heading home'._  
  
 _Her words make the flame of helpless rage, which he has been trying to put out with mug after mug after mug of all sorts of drinks, flare up with a renewed force. He springs to his feet, grabs at the counter with one hand to keep from toppling over, and swooshes his other hand through the air, knocking all the mugs and jugs and other whatnots down to the floor with a deafening rattle._  
  
 _'Home?!' he bellows. 'HOME?! Do you know what waits for me at home?! My con... consh... conshns, that's what! I killed fif... fiphteen men one night, and one of them was my bo.. boshes son! And now, I killed her other son! Do you hear me?! I killed Viranus Donton!'_  
  
 _'You did not kill him, Modryn. The Blackwood Company did. And those fifteen men were killed by Azani Blackheart and his bandit clan'._  
  
 _He swivels his head at the sound of that voice. That quiet, calm voice with a thick Velothi accent. Illari. His beautiful Ashlander. His trusty confidante, his loyal best friend, his tender, passionate lover. His heart jolts sickeningly. To think that he has actually gone to that jewellery store in the Imperial City, that he has selected a ring... She would never accept it now. Not from him. Not after what happened._  
  
 _'Well, well,' he drawls mockingly, hoping that the venom will conceal the pain in his voice. 'Come to do your job, have you? To tell off a guildmate for being drunk and disorderly? Well, maybe I am drunk and disorderly - but you have no right to touch me! Because see,' he tears at the front of the plain shirt he is wearing, exposing his heaving, sweating chest. 'I am not wearing my armour! I have been fired! FIRED! After years and years, all I've worked for, just...' he makes a rude sound with his lips, '... Snatched away! And serves me right! It was my fault Viranus died! My fault Blackwood is taking over! My fault!'_  
  
 _He screams these two words over and over, hysterical, clutching his aching chest; he fills them with all the loathing he is feeling towards himself now. He should have known. He should have foreseen. He should have tried harder to stop the Blackwood Company. He should have protected that foolish, over-eager boy, Viranus... But he did not. He failed his Guild. He failed the Guildmaster. And he failed Illari, by dragging her into his pathetic excuse for an investigation, by getting her demoted._  
  
 _She has drawn closer to him, so calm, unlike the innkeeper and the rest of the regulars, unafraid of his thrashing limbs, of the wild look on his haggard, unshaven face._  
  
 _'Please, Modryn,' she whispers, resting her hand on his shoulder. 'Stop this'._  
  
 _'Oh? And what would you have me do, if not this?!' he shrieks, jerking his arm away. 'Put my neck into a hose?! I might just do that! Might... Might make the world a better place...'_  
  
 _And at this moment, completely losing control of his movements, waving his hands through the air, he accidentally strikes Illari in the face - with such force that he splits her lip. He stares at her in blank terror, sobering up a little. She licks off the blood, without a trace of anger in her expression, and says,_  
  
 _'Modryn. My love. Let's go home'._  
  
 _My love... How can she say that? How can she love an incompetent failure like him? The weight of those two simple words crushes him; limp and obedient, staring unblinkingly ahead of him, he allows her to put her arm through his and, leaning on her heavily, staggers at her side back to his house, his head throbbing with feverish visions of those he betrayed._  
  


  
***

  
  
'You did not betray anyone, my dear tormented spirit. Neither then, nor now. You do all you can to protect our granddaughter - she could not ask for a better Ancestor Guardian. You don't have to blame yourself or ask for forgiveness. It is me that should'.  
  
Modryn looked up - and let out a small, sob-like cry. Standing in front of him on her knees, in a ghostly form similar to his, was Illari. Illari... She had left to explore the Shivering Isles when their son had barely started to walk, and was not heard from since. He had presumed her dead, but had not met her in the afterlife. And now, she was back... Kneeling. Humble. And so painfully sad.  
  
'I have tried to find our son, but his spirit has eluded me. Maybe he wants nothing to do with me - I understand that. But you... you, I have found. So please - please forgive me, Modryn. For abandoning you and Relas. For getting so wrapped up in my last adventure that I was unable to return home...'  
  
He bent down to her and grabbed her by the forearms, making her get up.  
  
'For two hundred years,' he said, in a strained, choking voice, 'For two hundred years, I have waited for you, in flesh and in spirit. I was beginning to lose all hope of ever seeing you again... I still can't believe you are here, with me. I have forgiven you long ago, Illari. Relas - perhaps not. But he will come around. Oh, Illari...'  
  
'Modryn... My Modryn...'  
  
Chaining their fingers together, the two spirits moulded for a moment into a single glowing form, emitting warm, gentle light - and then, slid together, hand in hand, across the plane of the afterlife. They had to return to Nirn in time to witness their granddaughter, their mortal ward - for Illari was destined to share Modryn's duties as an Ancestor Guardian - cured of vampirism... But for now, they had time to spend with one another. Just the two of them, in a boundless starry sky.

**Author's Note:**

> I am deliberately skimming over the moral implications of a vampire cure, since it is the horrors of the Soul Cairn that are preventing my other vamp, Midir, from cleansing his system. As Illa is not without morals, she would surely have rejected the price of sending someone's soul to eternal torment - and I really, really want her to get cured and become a happy Dragonborn adventuring in the sun and giving lovely half-blood babies to her husband. Lycanthropy is obviously not an option because she's already been through that, and besides, I have another Dragonborn that bypasses the soul gem dilemma this way. My headcanon is that neither Modryn nor Viarmo will ever learn of the connection of the Soul Cairn to curing vampirism - and Illa herself will be too much in a dazed state during the ritual to notice what is done to her. When she travels to the Soul Cairn later on with Serana, the vampiress will decide not to dwell on the story behind Illa's cure... For her conscience's sake. Blissful ignorance and all that jazz. I know it is not the best plot move, but I am really sick and tired of making Illa and Viarmo suffer... Maybe when she has lived a long and fulfilling life, Illa will learn of the sacrifice that has been made, and offer her soul to the Ideal Masters in exchange for freeing the one that was trapped in the gem used to cure her. Then she can spend her afterlife flirting with Jiub. But I will not have the thoughts of the Soul Cairn taint her pending happy family life with Viarmo!


End file.
